I gave Sargiss, my landlord, my 30 day notice today. I've been living in this same apartment for 7 years, the entire time I have lived in L.A., and now I have just 30 days left. This is the longest I have lived in one place since my childhood. I absolutely love this place - great space, location, neighbors. I can't believe my days here are numbered!
It's a weird feeling. Knowing that life is changing but still being in your routine. Waking up in the morning and looking out my bedroom window seeing palm trees, the Griffith Park observatory and the lemon tree. Coming home every day, pulling in the driveway, trying to not hit the side of the house with the car. Hearing Sasquatch, the homeless dude across the street, go on his senseless screaming rants. Seeing grandma, the world's best security guard, peek through the blinds, watching everyone coming and going. Smelling the bbq being fired up in the back, lamb sizzling, neighbors downing vodka and signing in Armenian. Spending hours in Emilie's place, late-night discussions fueled by 2 buck chuck.
I feel like I should be out and about in LA, doing all sorts of fabulous LA-type things, living up my final days here. Instead, I'm on the couch, wrapped in my snuggie, clearing out the DVR and enjoying day number 30 doing nothing in particular. It seems fitting to spend as much time as I can enjoying my little corner of the world on Avocado St.
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