Well, it’s just about that time. The professional movers are coming on Saturday, and so I may not be able to chat with you for some time. In the mean time, I’m scrambling to get the remnants of my life packed and on the road. I’m not moving far this time, so there’s no great pressure to get everything packed right now. I can take some time. I’m at the end, so I’m running out of boxes.
I could always unpack something that already resides at the new place, but that would take some effort, and I don’t have any to spare right now. It’s almost kind of depressing walking through this place right now. Now, the place is still a total shithole, but it’s taking on that strange, hollow sound that reverberates around an empty building. We’re definitely getting down to the wire.
Moving is not without its hazards. For one thing, you can’t find the forks and plates for about a week, and are forced to use sporks stolen from local restaurants as a last resort.
Bruising is a big issue. When you move, you end up looking like you jumped out of a moving vehicle and tried to hit the ground running. I have bruises everywhere right now. No, you can’t see all of them; this isn’t that kind of blog. But I’ll share the oddest with you:
That’s my toes. The faint red mark you see on the second toe is a bruise. It’s interesting to note that I was wearing steel caps for the bulk of the move. Lesson learned. No matter how damn uncomfortable those bitches are, do not take them off. EVER. Now I’m down one toe. I also have a bruise on my hip right next to a festering spider bite. I guess I’m just naturally sweet with a tendency to bump the old love handles. Where does that term come from? I sure as hell don’t love them.
My cats love the move. There are lots of boxes to play in and papers to mess up. They think this is the greatest toy I’ve ever gotten them. Unfortunately they’re just not helping. They claim the packing tape keeps getting stuck on their fur. I think they’re just being lazy.
You know it’s time to leave when the booze selection has slimmed down.
There’s no point in sticking around when there’s only some cheap margarita mix, no tequila and about a quarter ounce of four-year-old rum. I say we blow this taco stand and go somewhere with a better selection, like, Safeway. I bet they also have some un-smashed pretzels to have with the tequila too. I have to send somebody else in as a scab, though. I’ve been kicked out of too many grocery stores for starting spontaneous parties in the snack aisle. I’m pretty sure they would frown upon me fondling their beer section.
The problem is; I can’t get my nightly medicine at home anymore. I decided to forgo alcohol poisoning and pack my wine collection. I moved it myself. Look, the wine is just like the comic books. You can’t trust just anyone or some random day laborer to move that shit and not dip in. Man, there just has to be something worth digging into somewhere around here. Let me look…