in a few years, i'll be paying people to do this

status check - about to throw a temporary tantrum
background ambiance - live mraz (known today as my silver lining)

there's a reason why you conveniently forget what a bitch moving can be. i'm currently in the midst of remembering precisely why. and i am now throwing the inevitable tantrum that comes with moving. because i want to remember how much i hate moving for the next time i decide to move somewhere else. next time i will remember to only bring enough into a living space to fit into two boxes i can pile into my car and take to wherever else i wind up going.

disregard if you will, this is one of those "goddammit this is my blog and i can get pissed off in it for my own sake and fuck the readership" entries. i'll revert to my attempts at wit and insight next time.

try to sort through boxes. pack boxes. items don't fit. try to close boxes anyway. try to rearrange items in boxes. try to close boxes again. make boxes close by applying copious amounts of tape. try to stack boxes. move boxes from one stack to the other. realize the thing you really should have put in a particular box is sitting right in front of you. throw it in another box and accept fact that you'll come across item again in december. realize you don't care right now. try to label boxes. realize all of your labeling consists of "misc. breakable items." give up labeling boxes.

hope psychotic landlord does not try to repeat thursday action of entering apartment. realize you cannot take nap (not that you want to) because perhaps psychotic landlord will again enter apartment while you are asleep. return to boxes and process of determining which items you will need for last several days. realize you are content living on takeout as long as godforsaken boxes are packed and ready for move.

also realize you wish you could go to sleep (sans landlord entry) and wake up on wednesday, tucked into bed in new apartment, moving complete.

this fucking sucks.

enough whining, tantrum over. still have god knows how many fucking boxes to pack.

focusing on the light at the end of the tunnel. come wednesday, i will be an official resident in a delightful new (to me) apartment, with two co-habitants. i'll be returning to the roommate power of three for the first time since i lived hundreds of miles away, in a building carefully watched over by the lone figure of a policeman, guarding the corner through day and night, sunshine and snow, with the same closed smile on his face 24 hours a day. it was admittedly a statue of a policeman, but i never had a single incident of crime in my little capital space.

new apartment. a little family of friends to share the days and evenings with. my reward for a packing weekend.

Sharing the small space with my friends is what makes a palace out of my place. Were I to move to a big house outside of the city I would be alone, with no kingdom to try to control. There would be no political power play over who gets the final say on the color of paint for the hallway. Who would I blame when the phone is disconnected or there is no hot water? Who would wish me good luck before I left and say “it’s good to have you back” when I returned?

indeed.