Okay, let's just say, like, hypothetically, that you, and I'm not saying any names here, might be a bit of a pack rat. And let's say our nameless and totally made-up person we're talking about might have come by it honestly by being from a family of pack rats. Okay, and just for example, keeping it totally on the hypothetical tip, maybe this person might have married someone who has similar pack-ratty aptitudes from a similar source. So right there our fictional couple has some issues with stuff, right?

Alright now, and stay with me here, let's say our couple moves into a totally fictional loft where there's a lot of, not so much storage space as corners to shove things into. So you can understand that our theoretical couple might use the opportunity to expand their already prodigious collection of priceless junk, yeah? And let's say that they live right next to a group of totally fictional asshole, scumbag, dickhead DJ's who make the life of the totally not for real couple a totally for real constant battle.

So now we, I mean they, I mean... whatever, our new apartment is smaller than our last one and we have a lot of shit, okay?

What this means to us is that moving, which is trying at the best of times, has turned into an experience not unlike a major earthquake. First you have the intial shock which you try to survive as best as possible. Eating takeout, Making a space through your boxes to sleep, etc. Then, you have a series of aftershocks. The aftershocks of moving are when you decide that you want to set up a shelf, or your computer desk, or whatever. You then have to move all the boxes currently occupying that space, then scrub the floor on hands and knees to get the grime out, then set whatever up, then find the boxes that contain the items go with whatever you set up, then unpack them, then move all the other boxes into some other corner so you can get to things like the bed and the toilet.

It's paying off though. Slowly, the apartment that we want is materializing through the nightmare of boxes and bags. And the yard really helps. As do the constant ministrations of our friends. Helen again fed us copiously on Sun. What a gal.

Okay, I promise I'm going to shut up about this moving thing now. Sorry.
  ¶ 11:13 AM