That's not what the Death card means

I wasn't yelling at you, I was just yelling
written 2017-04-26 01:32:53

Moving is the worst. Next time I have to move I'm just going to kill whoever it is that is making me move, and then kill the next person, and the next. It will be easier in the long run.

A recurring theme of this move has been asking Ingrid if she is throwing away old clothes, old books, old papers; the punchline is when she says no, she might need them. We have lived together for five years and she has not seen any of these items since we moved in, in 2012. 2011? It's been a while.

I'm just as bad, but in a lesser magnitude. I have a lot of "but I received this as a gift from Respected Friend!" reasons for keeping shit. I also have a full set of Happy Meal toys from the Legion of Super-Heroes cartoon, so don't let my bullshit fool you.

(There's also the legitimate fear that Relative X will find out you donated or threw away something they gave you, and be hurt by that. Look, I had to accept that they're all just possessions, please don't fuck up my progress.)

Yesterday I worked eight hours and my project ended. Today, I had to go back to the old house, have an existential shock about how much shit there still was to move / donate / throw away, then move said shit for four hours. Afterward, we drove it back to the new apartment, hauled it up two flights of stairs, and put it away. I collapsed in Ingrid's IKEA chair, my legs flung across the matching footrest. I tried to get my shoes off, but I was tired, and I mostly just let them fall off my limp feet. One of the shoes hit a long (five feet?) cardboard box, which began toppling toward me. I leaned forward to catch it, which put my center of gravity too far forward for Swedish seat technology to adapt. The entire chair rolled forward, dropping me on my ass on the floor and the back of the chair banging me on the the head while my legs batted the footrest across the room and the cardboard box fell on me anyway.

I sat on the floor, screaming profanity, until Ingrid came in and demanded to know what I had done. I informed her that her Nordic devil chair had attacked me, which she took as some kind of slight.

I did the next drive to the old house alone. I feel sure that my cause is just.

--1:27 AM EST, West Mt. Airy, Philadelphia, what difference does it make?

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