Forcing my friends to help me carry huge boxes full of crap that I am embarrassed to own in the first place is not my idea of how to spend a Saturday afternoon. Ghandi had five world possessions, and something tells me that one of them was not a glow-in-the-dark POG slammer.
Then there is always that one guy, the genius who wants to stand in the street and holler at me while I move, making obnoxious comments about my belongings as if I was unaware of how lame my stuff is.
In keeping with current trends, it has been my misfortune to move about every six months, and this time will prove to be no exception. God only knows who is getting my mail!
Moving so much f*cks with me, it really does. I never get settled anywhere, never get truly comfortable because I know it is just a matter of time before I will have to leave again. I always feel like a guest, like I am “just visiting” in my own home (and I use the term loosely.) I don’t unpack because I know I’ll just have to mess with it again in six months. Most if the time, I don’t even put posters on the walls…what’s the point?
Just once, I would like to feel like I belong somewhere.