So . . . I’m thinkin’ of just having a yard sale, dumping everything I own, and living in a tent. Because I have to move again. Yes. Again. I hate moving. Hate hate hate hate moving. Yet I seem to do it a lot. In fact, just six weeks ago was the last time I did it. Why, you say? Am I just a masochist? Or is there a reason?
The short version:
- My neighbors smoke so much pot I actually got worried about getting contact high
- A fire lane is not what I would call a parking space worth $50 a month
- I’m not down with using child labor to keep the property clean
So I’m bailing. This sucks for a lot of reasons. I’ve really loved riding my bike to work. There’s something so stinking wholesome about riding a bike, and the fresh air and exercise has had a perk I couldn’t have anticipated; I actually have a tan. I can never get a tan, and often hiss at the sun “nasty sun . . . it burnsss usss.” But the half hour trip done in the early morning and late afternoon have slowly brought back bronze that I haven’t seen since high school.
Worse, I equate moving with chaos, unhappiness, and stress in my life. For a long time I’ve wanted to be able to unpack everything I own and finally ditch the plastic tubs that have held my life for the last two years. I don’t know where I’m going next, and the thought of apartment hunting — AGAIN — wearies me. But I’m staying hopeful that I’ll finally find a place that I know won’t vanish from under my feet once I’ve kicked my shoes off and gotten comfortable . . .
