Moving day. I can't reach my new apartment manager so I don't have a key to get into my place. If I can't reach her by tonight I'll be living out of a Uhaul until further notice.
I haven't gotten the truck yet even though I was supposed to pick it up two hours ago. There's nowhere to park it.
I'm not done packing. You think the books are the hard part. No. The hard part is all that tiny little shit that just keeps popping up all over the apartment. Why do I own a dancing hampster? And a novelty magnifying glass? And puzzle glue? And if I throw it away will I suddenly want to put a puzzle together and frame it?
Half the people who volunteered to help me have bailed. These aren't even people I asked. These are people who nominated themselves. All the people I outright asked are gonna show, so I'm beginning to think pizza and beer is not enough of a reward. Maybe I should make them all executive producers of my short film.
My last move was not this stressful. My last move involved 8,000 degree weather in muggy North Carolina at the end of July and a bazillion mile drive to LA that took four days to an apartment I'd never seen in a city I'd never been to. But moving a mile down the street on a mild Saturday in Los Angeles is giving me a panic attack.
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I'd post something in response, but I'm not sure you'd be able to read it.
ReplyDeleteI was just joking, now I'm actually a little worried. I hope everything's ok.
ReplyDeleteStill here. Barely, but here.
ReplyDelete