This is tenth time I’ve moved since 2005. This is not a stat I’m strutting. Moving is goddamn exhausting, expensive as sin, and always just a bit humiliating. It’s not healthy to box your life on a yearly basis. When I began this entry, my worldly possessions were stacked in the corner of my denuded room and I was sweating whether or not I’d manage to Tetris the lot of it into the body of my purple 1997 Rav4—“The Grimus.” I made it just fine. Halifax to Guelph in two days, listening to Stephen King’s time travel novel.
I’m not a gewgaw guy, not sentimental with possessions. The boxed life I’d moved was books that I either haven’t read or can’t do without, furniture that I could either collapse or disassemble, and clothes I’d mostly had since high school. The lot of my worldly junk equals the size of a moose, maybe, or a grizzly bear, or one of those poor obese adults you used to see on TV being taken out of a hole cut into their house by a forklift.
I’ll be thirty in half-a-year and this is a mite fucking depressing.