We Interrupt This Broadcast to Get Totally Unhinged

Please believe me when I tell you that my intentions this week were very good. I wanted to stay focused on the big issues at hand. You know, like keep writing about my social media theory from last week, especially in light of the landmark Meta trial. Or explain something very important about algorithms that you really should know. Or talk about how I finally tried using Claude, and Claude made me feel very weird. But I can't do any of those things, because instead I need to talk to you about the angle of the sun.

First let me give you a little backstory. Earlier this year—on January 5th, to be exact—I received some unexpected and unwelcome news. The woman who owns my apartment told me she needed to move back in. Now, even under normal circumstances, this isn't news a person wants to hear. Especially not in New York City, at a time when normally high rents have reached astronomical levels of stupidity. But these weren't normal circumstances: She'd already twice confirmed a lease extension, once last November and once a few days into the new year. We'd agreed on terms. I was merely waiting on the paperwork. Then all of that went out the window.

Look, I know everyone hates moving. Everyone normal, anyway, because some people claim to enjoy it? Absolute psychos. But maybe my backstory needs a little backstory of its own: I absolutely, unequivocally, indubitably hate moving more than all of you. You're all pikers. Normies. You hate moving for the usual reasons: It sucks, it's stressful, it's expensive, you have too much stuff, blah blah blah. Get a load of this: I hate moving because moving is a conspiracy to make me lose my mind. The instant I learn I'm going to move, I go loco. And no matter how far in advance that is, I do not regain my sanity until the first night in my new home.

For example! When I moved from Stockholm to New York, I moved into a gorgeous apartment in a great building in Brooklyn. I absolutely adored that place, and I would have stayed for a long time. Then my building got bought by a private equity firm that, in the grand tradition of private equity, wanted to squeeze the life force out of a wonderful entity in order to make as much money as possible. Now you're thinking, "That's not a conspiracy, Leah! That's capitalism!" Well explain to me why I was the only person who got a nine month lease and then had to move out so they could transform my perfect one-bedroom apartment into a terrible two-bedroom apartment in which each bedroom was 9" x 10" but with a window, a closet, and a door. CONSPIRACY.

Now, if you heard you had to move in nine months, what would you do? You, in full possession of your faculties, would enjoy living in your nice apartment for the last seven or eight months of your time there, then look for a new place to live, rent it, and move. Me? I spent seven months in a state of suspended panic. What was going to happen? Was I going to find a place to live? Would it be nice? More importantly: Would Lumpy be happy? Would my cat—obviously the single most important consideration when looking for a place to live—like it as much as he liked our current apartment? Would everything be ruined for him? Would I fail him? Was the apartment I decided to rent the right one? Would he hate living on a way upper floor of a high rise when he'd only ever lived on the fourth or fifth floor? Would he be miserable? Would the loss of his perfect south-facing windows and windowsills that looked out onto trees and birds (and rats) launch him into a despair from which he would not be rescued?

Anyway we moved into the current apartment and, of course, I immediately came back to my senses. It's fantastic. We've got two big west-facing windows that get late afternoon sun, and one south-facing window that gets the sun patch of Lumpy's dreams. I bought a low, wide bookshelf expressly so he could have a bed on it to sun himself as he pleases. As you've probably guessed—and this is true of with every move he's done, whether from California to Sweden or Sweden to New York—Lumpy did far better than I. He's been happier in each apartment than in the last.

And yet! This, what I've described above, is happening again. It happens every time I move. Every. Single. Time. With Lumpy. By myself. With my other cat Linty. No move has ever been not-insane. I've sought help. I've used medication. I've tried it all and still (still!) I find myself here once again. And this time? Like I said: It's the angle of the sun.

Now, of course, with the move deadline looming–and by looming I mean I have until the end of June, thanks for asking, but prices go up in the summer, anyway stop looking at me like that—the panic set in. So I grabbed the first apartment I saw, which had sun and nice views but also had lots of problems. Naturally, my brain fixated on the problems. Then lo and behold, an apartment that wasn't even on the market yet fell into my lap. Same size, same price, but with none of those problems! Incredible!

Well, it did have one tiny little problem of its own. One window was north facing instead of south, and the west facing windows were partially blocked by the side of the building. So what did I do? Well, naturally! I STARTED OBSESSING ABOUT THE ANGLE OF THE SUN.

The word "problem" really undersells two things here: One, it undersells just how much of a problem it has actually become for me personally (more on that in a bit). Two, it undersells just how really, really out of my mind I am. Because every single person who has been dragged into my tar pit of doom has done this:

[look at photos of the problem apartment] "Oh yes, the view is amazing, and wow that sun is so nice. That place doesn't look so bad, you could totally make it work."

[look at photos of the remodeled apartment] "Wait. THAT'S THE OTHER APARTMENT? Oh my god are you kidding, it's like night and day, why is this even a question?"

How do I explain this. I need, like, a murder board. Some string and some visuals. Please close your eyes and go on this journey with me.

My current apartment, as noted, faces west and south. The west-facing windows are totally unobstructed, both from the south and to the west. There's a building across the way from the south window but it mostly blocks the view, not the sun. This means sun comes in the south window and then both west windows almost year round. And when I say the western view is perfectly framed, I mean I got this sunset photo one time.

Now do you see what I mean by PROBLEM? Deep breath.

Pych! Come back next week for DIAGRAMS AND MAPS OF THE SUN, and no I’m not kidding.

See you next Wednesday! I hope! Please come back.

Lx