OMGFML

I am moving tomorrow morning. I have been packing non-stop since Thursday afternoon. You would never know it, though. My bedroom is still in tact, except for an eerie lack of clothing in the closet. But that is really the only noticeable difference.

I hate moving. I hate packing. This is not a new, environmentally-induced statement. It is a truth that runs through my veins day in and day out. My nomadic childhood made me a wanderer, but washed out any fanciful misconceptions about new starts and new neighbourhoods. If you ask me on any given day what I hate most in the world, I would likely quote moving before trying to cover up my true self with something like "violence" or "injustice." But, let's be honest, moving sucks so large.

Packing, I think, is recognized under the Geneva Convention as a form of torture. So is disassembling Ikea furniture. I think the only thing worse than disassembling Ikea furniture is putting it together again. One day you have a fully-functional queen-sized bed, and the next all you have is four thousand special Ikea-only screws that don't match any of your screw drivers, forty-eleven pieces of misshappen stained-wood, and all of your hopes and dreams scattered across your new bedroom floor.

And what's worse: I already packed all the drugs and alcohol. Can't even self-medicate myself through this trauma.

~g. mango is a sedentary nomad.