The life of a real estate typhoon is hard.  Serious empathy for The Trump these days.  But he makes it look so easy.

Here’s the thing.  You can make the decision to move across country, easy peasy right?  And, about the time I filled my gas tank and started driving west, I had worked out that the chapter where I lived in my little Cambridge condo was past the peak in the narrative arc and would be winding down.  Sure.  I got that.

And, when I walked through the place in May and took a few pictures, then walked through again with Terry the Real Estate Broker and talked about the work I would need to do to be a landlord, I could feel that the chapter had thinned down to less than a page left.

Who the fuck wants to be a landlord?  Karma, man, karma.  Who would want to sink a lot of dough into a place for the privilege of being a landlord?  A landlord from a distance.  Expensive, bad karma. Even The Trumpster lived nearby in Jersey when the Atlantic City empire began.

Meaning, there wasn’t really anything to decide.  Selling equals more choices.  Choices in Cali with M.

Still and all, it is a weird thing to give up the place.

Tougher still is entertaining two offers that at the moment are the same.

I’m really what you would call pro-choice, and not just about my right to baby killing.  I like a fine array of choices.  Chinese?  Home-cooking?  Bowl of cereal?  Yup, I defend my right to choose.

But, dammit all to hell, I fucking hate the responsibility of deciding.  I ain’t no decider, like the GWBush-man.  Deciding implies ownership and living with consequences and failing amd winning and losing and succeeding and grown up shit and all.

I feel like my condo is a puppy.  I want it to go to a good home that will take care of it and treat it better than I can now.

And, I want to end up with enough cash for M. and me to be able to get a Cali puppy.