constance | One last time.

Yesterday, I sent off my last, desperate attempt to own a house to my real estate agent. I didn't hold out much hope; after more delays and misunderstandings and contract revisions and intitials and signatures and forms and verifications and inspections and appraisals and faxes (OH MY GOD THE ENDLESS FAXES), it seemed as though everything was going just right enough to keep going, but wrong enough that the keeping going was completely pointless. And if my blood pressure was high two weeks ago, who knows what it was yesterday as I waved that fax goodbye.

This morning I got a call from my realtor, though, and BY GOD THAT HOUSE IS MINE. Or at least it will be, if things go as planned which HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, on December 23rd. This is my Christmas present to myself: an empty bank account, a house full of packing boxes, three freaked-out pets, and one newly-repaired hundred-year-old house.

All day, I have barely been able to speak, barely been able to sit still. I feel like bursting into tears. I am completely petrified. Also so goddamned happy.