Friday, June 15, 2012

me: well, that does it - I've officially gone through every single box in the house and garage and donated the donate-able stuff and tossed the rest of the stuff and I am READY for the move*

the house: what? did you forget about this box? And this one? And that other one in the corner of the garage, in prime black widow country? Because, yeah, these boxes are just chock full of crap that you may or may not need. Also, they may or may not contain emotional landmines from the last 20 years of your life**.

I am not even kidding, these fucking boxes are coming out of nowhere. I clean a whole room up and then POOF, another pyramid of cardboard taunting me. "Oh, hey, look at me, I'm a box you've dragged all over the country - you've moved me so many times and you haven't properly labeled me once. Who knows what the fuck is in me"

*by "ready for the move" I mean that, superficially, on some level, I'm ready for the packers to come on Tuesday and pack up what belongings of mine that I haven't tossed, donated or relocated to giant tupperware containers.

**like the notebook that contained pages and pages of angst over my senior prom and whether or not I was up for the emotional responsibility of deflowering my date (I even noted that the whole idea of punching someone's V-card on prom night was "SO 90210").

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