It’s not that I want to complain about the weather every chance I get, it’s just that sometimes, it really causes problems for me. Today, there was a painfully consistent heavy downpour that pounded the rooftops and rang shamelessly against the metal of the balconies. I had absolutely no plans–my lack of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) must have followed me all the way to France–and I deemed it a stay-at-home reading night. I was determined to snuggle up in the covers and finish reading 1Q84, a 1000+ page book I feel like I’ve been reading for years. All is quiet, except a faint dripping sound. Wait, what? It took me a few minutes to process and recognize this unfamiliar sound, which started out as a neutral observation and became an ominous echo. I was scared to go outside to examine, as I knew it was likely I would find something I didn’t want to deal with. I couldn’t ignore it, so I crept outside and found the source of the ploc ploc. The ceiling was leaking, a steady drip onto the bookcase in the living room. I panicked for a second and whipped out my phone, debating whether I should call the landlord first, or email my sub-leaser. It was only then that I realized I should find some sort of vessel to catch the water. Once I got a towel and pitcher situated, I started writing an email with the subject “Ceiling Leaking!” making sure to convey at least some of the panic I was feeling. It was around 7PM, and I pondered whether it would be considered rude to call the landlord at this hour, but figured this was an emergency. I was completely bamboozled by what happened next. Not only did someone pick up, but something was off about the call. I didn’t notice immediately, nor did I really even give the person on the other line a chance to talk. I tried to rapidly and concisely explain who was calling and what was happening with the leak. When I finally took a brief pause, the voice on the other line sounded a bit too casual and confused to be the apartment's middle-aged architect landlord. And it wasn’t. I had accidentally called a man I met on Bumble, someone I went on a first date with a few nights before. I wasn’t embarrassed, more genuinely upset at myself for allowing this to happen, especially because he hadn’t texted me all day that day, and he was starting to make me wonder why (“tweak” would be the appropriate slang for this feeling of anxiousness and wondering whether someone is interested or cares to contact you enough for your satisfaction). I don’t know if I did it subconsciously, or if I was just too frazzled and frantic in my actions, but it was the cherry on top to an unexpectedly hectic and subliminally stressful evening as I waited for responses from multiple people. I did manage to get a hold of the landlord after my blunder, but he showed no sense of urgency, and the dripping had slowed down. He actually seemed quite annoyed that I was bothering him, so I forced myself to calm down, and managed to get back to my book, which, sadly, I did not get to finish, and still haven’t at the time of this writing. It's ironic that my name in Korean, 단비, can be translated to "Sweet Rain" because the rain is never so sweet to me.