I fucking hate moving.
And no I’m not talking about the complex set of neuron firings, muscle reactions, and laws of physics that are required every time I make any sort of motion. (Although there are some mornings that I feel this way. I have a very serious coffee addiction.)
I am talking about the process of put-everything-you-own-in-boxes-consider-what-you-have-accomplished-since-the-last-time-you-did-this. I’ve done this every year for the last 7 years, and it’s always been in August. (Not to get off track, but August is the worst month. Hot. No holidays.)
Moving isn’t one terrible thing. It’s three. There’s the week of packing beforehand, as you continue to live in a place as it goes to shambles. Then there’s the nightmare of coordinating and carrying that is moving itself. And of course, you are exhausted, sweaty, and angry, and you can’t nap because your bed is underneath everything you own in the world, which brings you to phrase 3: unpacking.
In case you’re wondering, it is a lot easier to get a printer into a metal waste basket then it is to get it out. That shit was like Excalibur.
Naturally, it’s only when I’m moving out of a place that I realize I have absolutely no photographic proof that I ever lived there.
My life in shambles 2008:

My life in shambles 2009:

Ugh. The number of things these pictures have in common is going to give me nightmares.
some things,
Never Change