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Moving.

I’m moving to a new apartment tomorrow and I have to do all my packing today. (Because I’m special like that)

But I keep procrastinating because… I don’t like this part. I don’t like taking things apart. I like putting things together I don’t like taking things apart. Umm…

I think of it as psychic energy. This space has energy (unbalanced, chaotic energy, but energy nonetheless) and to take it apart is going to be like… pulling apart strands of toffee and flinging them all around. No matter how many lists I make and plans I form to try to make it as logical and clean as possible… it’s a messy process.

I also don’t believe in doing things in a normal way. That’s too easy šŸ˜‰ (actually it’s hard, for me, which is why I don’t do it) Buy bubble wrap and boxes to put things in? What? Why wouldn’t I just wrap breakable things in my clothes to keep them safe? IMPROVISE!

That just reminded me I have a blanket out in the garage which is probably really disgustingly dirty now. I put it out there in January when my cat was living in the garage and I wanted to try and keep her a little warm and comfortable (she was just “a cat” at the time, not “my” cat) sooo… great.

Moving shit, putting shit into piles and sorting shit and finding shit you forgot you had… I HATE THIS PART. So I don’t even want to start. That’s what happened when I moved from my place on the farm back into my parents house, before I moved to NYC. Moving to the farm was pretty easy, I didn’t bring a lot of stuff, didn’t bring any furniture. But of course I accumulated more stuff while living there and I was really sad to be leaving so I didn’t want to face that by packing. So literally the day my dad arrived I was just throwing shit in giant garbage bags hahaha. It was only a 30 minute drive but it was still pretty ridiculous. Then I didn’t know what to do with my bags o’ crap once I got to my parents because of course all my crap from my entire life was there already. Then when I moved five months later to NYC I took a train with two suitcases and a backpack. And like $600 to my name. That’s how I moved to NYC. I stayed with an incredibly generous friend in her studio apartment for three months and she kind of wanted to kill me understandably… and then I moved to Brooklyn. And I have lived here for a year and four months. I’ve accumulated shit.

And taking everything apart makes it real. Makes the experience real. I don’t really do real most of the time, I do “la la I live in my head look at the glittery unicorns!” or something to that extent… minus the glittery unicorns. And it’s not like I’m sad to leave. I’m fucking ECSTATIC to leave. And since I don’t really do enthusiasm, it’s a big deal to describe myself as ecstatic. That just reminded me of this:

teehee. But no actually if I were a LOLCat, I’d be this dude:

Moving on, I am super excited to move to a new neighborhood, to an actual apartment building with elevators and laundry in the basement and a foyer and a personal mailbox. An apartment with new (and by new I mean recent and well kept, not from, say, the 70s) kitchen appliances and bathroom.. stuff. (big words!)

I would like to go on a tangent right now and just say how many times I have to re-read everything I write and take out the word “like” and replace it with something more grammatically correct. Wow.

I love unpacking though. (This is the worst blog entry ever) I like finding new homes for things in new places. Like I said, (that was an appropriate use of the word “like” btw) I enjoy putting things (back) together.

That could be metaphorical. Chew on that. Okay bye.

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