So I’m in my new place. I don’t have Internet yet, so this is all done on my phone. Forgive me if it’s proofread like shit. There’s usually one typo I correct a month later, but this may be much worse.
How am I? Most of the time I’m all right. But I’m close to a breaking point. I lost it last night when I realized the fucking bird mites have come with me to my new apartment. Yep.
I got rid of a lot of stuff this weekend. You know what it felt like, watching my perfectly good yarn get into a car and drive away, and my brown tank tops get into garbage bags to be given to the Salvation Army, and my sofa bed hauled down the stairs to be sold into upholstered slavery? It felt like a bout of diarrhea that makes you cramp up and shiver. I feel better, but damn, that was a traumatic experience. Actually, shedding my hoarded goods was very, very close to taking a painful, hellish shit, the kind that burns like fire and smells like brimstone. I’m having the same mixed feelings, three days later.
Yes, let’s talk about toilet matters.
So remember the other day I was all buttsore about how no one was helping me and I was drowning in moving? How dare my friends be out-of-town and taking care of their children and at the doctor? The nerve! Nobody loves me! Pass the Tapatio and a bib for my worms, please.
Okay, so that’s moot now. Everything’s fine and I was trippin. The end.
No, I’m just kidding. Why say a little when I can say a lot?
Mood in here is crankypants! This post is rambling!
What’s worse than moving? Debt! What’s worse than debt? Moving and debt! Add a hint of blame and serve. Oh for the love of Ke$ha, I’m having some issues lately. My move is getting more exciting by the day.
I’m moving again. I hate moving, but I do it all the motherfucking time. In 2004 from NorCal to SoCal. Then two years later to DC. Then a year later to Brooklyn. Then a little more than a year after that back to the Yay Area, the place where I was born. Now I’m doing my first move of less than 200 miles in seven years. It’s different, I’ll tell you that much.
I always have a very good reason for moving: school, a new job, witness protection program, something like that. But I’m still a rolling stone. I still keep myself from committing to a place and living a real, grown-up life. I mean, I’m already thinking about moving to Portland (Oregon, not Maine, although I have been there and it’s alright, but extremely weatherish and Seer doesn’t cope well) in two years.