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A bit of background, first: I live in an apartment building. Along with the par for the course elephants living above me come the requisite apathy of the leasing office to fix various fixtures within my apartment, as well as the corresponding apathy I bear in not bothering to ask them to fix the simple things.

And thus we come across my bedroom door. A bit of personal respite from my roommates on occasion is a good thing, necessitating a functional lock. Of course, this is one of the ways in which my apartment fails me. Quite simply, it doesn't lock.

At least that's what I had thought, previous to my experiences in the previous half year of residency. The door, after all, didn't quite fit in the door frame properly, leaving just enough space for the door to be simply pushed open. I chose to keep it constantly locked more out of a false sense of security than anything else.

Of course, anybody reading this can plainly see where this is heading. A puppy had come to visit one weekend while I was out of town, and a roommate had closed the door. I came back to a door that was locked (fine) and wouldn't open (not fine). The constantly changing humidity and temperature in the apartment had finally changed the way my door fit.

Have you ever taken a doorknob apart?

I set about with a phillips screwdriver and started unscrewing the door handle. With that piece of brass removed from the wood, I gazed upon the inner workings of my door. Yes, it was completely unfamiliar to my eyes. I tried twisting the shaft in a vain effort to open the door. Of course, as it was locked, this was just as successful as turning the doorknob in the first place. I got a handful of machinery grease as my reward.

Looking more closely at the shaft, I noticed that there was a slot inside of it that would perfectly fit a flathead screwdriver. Curious, I tried turning it with my screwdriver, and heard the most joyous sound: the click denoting the fact that my door was now unlocked. Turning further removed the bolt from the door frame, and I was in my room.

Of course, the following week I hadn't learned my lesson only to have it repeat once again. Hopefully, this cautionary tale will serve to either prevent a lockout situation or to educate on the process of resolving the situation.

See, I hate change. The life-twisting kind of change, not the pocket kind of change, though I hate pocket change too.

It's late; bear with me.

I have a new job, one that's utterly different from anything I've ever done. It's different, partially because it pays more decently than anything I've been paid in years and partially because I'm not being paid to walk around in circles and look busy, but mostly because it's actually based on a tangible, quantifiable skill.

Still. It's different, and that's unnerving as hell - more than the change (or maybe because of the hatred of change) is the fact that I don't like not being good at things in public. I learn in private (or at least quietly through absorption) and I keep it close. I don't mind losing, but failing is very different. I do it as much as anybody, but I tend not to talk about it - my anxiety suppression system would rival mother's latest little helper if you could squeeze it into pill form.

Until it loses containment, anyway, but that's not the point.

On top of this new job, I'm faced with the unenviable position of having to move at the same time - my building got sold and my rent's going up by a third on April First, so that's that. I like this place, but I never really could afford it; it's just as well, but that's a helluva lot of organization that I don't know if I'm capable of right now.

I am sedentary. I am comfortable. I live (here's irony for you) three blocks away from my new office. It's less than a cigarette away; that's ridiculously close, even by New York City standards. The possibility of a better, cheaper place with a fire escape and butt can of my very own is thrilling, but. Change. Packing. Boxes. Kitty carriers. It's dangerous.

The moving problem is really the same as the working problem - I don't want to have to ask where the deli with the leanest pastrami is, or how to get to the subway, or where the nearest park is that I can catch some sun of a summer sunday. I'm used to knowing these things because I've lived here for three years and, right now, this is as much of a home to me as I've ever had (with the exception of one particular piece of scenery.)

It's funny, in a way. What way, exactly, I'm not so sure.

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