Moving Madness
(On the anniversary of my first year in my first bachelor apartment, I have uncovered and rewritten the notes from my journal from that particular weekend)
(Sept.01, 2003)
Moving apartments sucks. I am excited to move into my first bachelor apartment of course, but the process blows donkeys for quarters. Soon I can look forward to crapping with the bathroom door open, frying up bacon naked, and lighting my farts with a barbeque lighter, but first I have to survive the actual “move” itself.
I am still trying to figure out how I ended up with all this stuff stored and hidden in my room. I must be some sort of human packrat; squirreling away obtuse random giggits, gadgets, doohickies, doodads, gizmos, and random whatchamafuckits like some sort of demented hamster beast. I am currently trying to stuff the entire contents of my old apartment of three years into a dozen cardboard boxes lifted from the dumpster behind the local Avondale. All those wasted hours spent in University stoned on my couch, playing Tetrus on my roommates Nintendo Gameboy have not prepared me as well as I would have hoped for daunting task. So far, the process involves grabbing armfuls of collective shit from the shelves and counter surfaces and dumping them into the box and then carefully arranging the items with the sole of my foot with a delicate stomping action. The next step I am considering is to just slash and burn it all into fine ash and scoop it into a mason jar for easy transporting.
There are things in my old apartment that have been lurking in mysterious shadows behind cabinets and shelves crudely manufactured out of discarded milk crates for years, now they are being exposed like some kind of rare endangered species in a diminishing landscape. Dust bunnies as big as rhinos are now beginning to roam the hardwood floors as if they were actually stocking real prey. I am using a bullwhip and wooden chair to tame these mutant dust bunnies and keep them attacking and eating the cat.
The biggest burden of moving apartments is how to safely and secretly conceal your private porno collection from being discovered in transition between apartment complexes by one of the unfortunate volunteers that you’ve invited into your chaotic home to sift through all your personal belongings and cohorted into assisting you into moving across the city in return for few cold beers and an emergency truss. It is Murphy’s Law of Moving that dictates that your friends will inevitably stumble across your dog-eared copies of ‘Naughty Nurses with Big Guns’ and ‘Juicy Jugs Quarterly’ magazines no matter how much duct tape and “PERSONAL PRIVATE PROPERTY” signs you label and wrap around your secret shoebox smut stash with.
(Sept. 02, 2003)
“Operation: Trading Places” has been successfully accomplished over the Labor Day holiday weekend with only two minor glitches: 1) I can’t find my weed, and 2) I still don’t have a key for the apartment or know how to set the security alarm. And even if I did have a key, i'd still be afraid to set the alarm for fear that the cat will trigger all the bells and whistles and I’ll get home from work to a circus of media hounds and emergency vehicles. If there is so much as a single flashing light when I round the corner of my new street my heart will probably spontaneously combust. Hell, even a kid waving a Snoopy flashlight would probably have me defecating myself right then and there in the street. And that’s NO WAY to be introduced to the neighbors! “Hi, my name is Terry. I’m your new neighbor. By chance, do you have any extra toilet paper?”
Day One after the move has been spent doing the obligatory ‘New Apartment Mambo’: searching out wall sockets, burning yourself in the shower, loosing the toilet paper, discovering daddy’s shameful family secret in the form of a deck of 70’s Chippendale playing cards in the bottom drawer of his bureau. The thought of my father locked in his office spanking one out to Tom Wopat in an banana hammock is simply too much to bear!
Now that I have wasted enough time on the couch watching artsy Home Renovation programs on television, my expectations for my first bachelor apartment are high and I have sifted through and unpacked everything away, or ditched it to the curbside altogether to cut loose the excess fat from my dangerously obese and burdened life. I purged myself of all Dear John letters, Immigration refusals, unopened University texts, bad poetry, failed essays, unflattering photos, souvenir pamphlets, tacky artwork, and zillions of cheap, tarnished, broken-clasped necklaces and snapped wristbands. I am now considering where everything should go. I have channeled the energy and creative inspiration of the flamboyantly gay elderly Interior Decorator (I have even donned a flashy Hawaiian shirt for the process) and I am beginning to look at the task of decorating, as a graduate art student would look at his final Installation Art piece. The cat however, is looking at it like Kim Mitchell’s Rocklandwonderland what with all the new nooks and crannies to explore.
It is fun and invigorating to sort out and organize all the items and possessions of my life, and decide on the perfect place for display in the apartment layout. So, to a single mature desperate male such as myself, everything is carefully scrutinized and positioned for the ultimate effectiveness and maximum potential for getting me laid. “I wonder if by placing my grandmothers antique porcelain tea set on the refurbished wicker table in the living room will increase my chances of receiving oral sex from a visiting member of the opposite sex as opposed to placing it as a centerpiece on the dining table in the kitchen?”, or “If I was a wanton nubile sex goddess considering carnal relations, would I be more inclined to be less-inhibited and sexually promiscuous if the authentic Star Trek collective plates are showcased in the dining room cabinet, or the living room? Bookcase?”, or even “Would I feel more inclined to give up the goods on a first date if he has attempted to decorate his bathroom with seashells and scented candles, as opposed to decorating with empty discarded toilet paper rolls and an old Hooters calendar from 1998?”. It’s the intrinsic driving thought processes behind every heterosexual male when dealing with home interior design I’m sure. All decorating efforts are creative extensions of our penis and our desires for animalistic sex. It’s what drives our nesting and decorating instincts. Even Darwin himself was guilty of displaying his dusty travelogues and behavioral science textbooks so to maximize his chances of getting some loose primitive booty.
There was a brief few minutes of extreme panic and anxiety however, when I managed to loose the cat altogether for about 10-15 heart-stopping minutes. I must have gone from Zero-to-Panic in under 30 nano-seconds. I was ready to go to the printers with posters, call in the Special Forces Task Unit, and organize neighborhood search parties to begin combing the area. In my poor drug-addled, I had envisioned that Miso had already hatched a Great Escape-style master getaway plot and had prepared his disguise, forged fake documents and a passport, and was swiftly making his way into the Woodland Avenue kitty underground network led by some French cat in a beret through the sewer pipes. Fortunately, he turned up in the linen cupboard under the bathtub enjoying a peaceful nap. But not before I had revealed myself to the neighborhood tough guy in my underwear as some nancy-ass with a cat named after a Japanese soup. “What kind of name is that for a friggin’ cat?”
(Sept.01, 2003)
Moving apartments sucks. I am excited to move into my first bachelor apartment of course, but the process blows donkeys for quarters. Soon I can look forward to crapping with the bathroom door open, frying up bacon naked, and lighting my farts with a barbeque lighter, but first I have to survive the actual “move” itself.
I am still trying to figure out how I ended up with all this stuff stored and hidden in my room. I must be some sort of human packrat; squirreling away obtuse random giggits, gadgets, doohickies, doodads, gizmos, and random whatchamafuckits like some sort of demented hamster beast. I am currently trying to stuff the entire contents of my old apartment of three years into a dozen cardboard boxes lifted from the dumpster behind the local Avondale. All those wasted hours spent in University stoned on my couch, playing Tetrus on my roommates Nintendo Gameboy have not prepared me as well as I would have hoped for daunting task. So far, the process involves grabbing armfuls of collective shit from the shelves and counter surfaces and dumping them into the box and then carefully arranging the items with the sole of my foot with a delicate stomping action. The next step I am considering is to just slash and burn it all into fine ash and scoop it into a mason jar for easy transporting.
There are things in my old apartment that have been lurking in mysterious shadows behind cabinets and shelves crudely manufactured out of discarded milk crates for years, now they are being exposed like some kind of rare endangered species in a diminishing landscape. Dust bunnies as big as rhinos are now beginning to roam the hardwood floors as if they were actually stocking real prey. I am using a bullwhip and wooden chair to tame these mutant dust bunnies and keep them attacking and eating the cat.
The biggest burden of moving apartments is how to safely and secretly conceal your private porno collection from being discovered in transition between apartment complexes by one of the unfortunate volunteers that you’ve invited into your chaotic home to sift through all your personal belongings and cohorted into assisting you into moving across the city in return for few cold beers and an emergency truss. It is Murphy’s Law of Moving that dictates that your friends will inevitably stumble across your dog-eared copies of ‘Naughty Nurses with Big Guns’ and ‘Juicy Jugs Quarterly’ magazines no matter how much duct tape and “PERSONAL PRIVATE PROPERTY” signs you label and wrap around your secret shoebox smut stash with.
(Sept. 02, 2003)
“Operation: Trading Places” has been successfully accomplished over the Labor Day holiday weekend with only two minor glitches: 1) I can’t find my weed, and 2) I still don’t have a key for the apartment or know how to set the security alarm. And even if I did have a key, i'd still be afraid to set the alarm for fear that the cat will trigger all the bells and whistles and I’ll get home from work to a circus of media hounds and emergency vehicles. If there is so much as a single flashing light when I round the corner of my new street my heart will probably spontaneously combust. Hell, even a kid waving a Snoopy flashlight would probably have me defecating myself right then and there in the street. And that’s NO WAY to be introduced to the neighbors! “Hi, my name is Terry. I’m your new neighbor. By chance, do you have any extra toilet paper?”
Day One after the move has been spent doing the obligatory ‘New Apartment Mambo’: searching out wall sockets, burning yourself in the shower, loosing the toilet paper, discovering daddy’s shameful family secret in the form of a deck of 70’s Chippendale playing cards in the bottom drawer of his bureau. The thought of my father locked in his office spanking one out to Tom Wopat in an banana hammock is simply too much to bear!
Now that I have wasted enough time on the couch watching artsy Home Renovation programs on television, my expectations for my first bachelor apartment are high and I have sifted through and unpacked everything away, or ditched it to the curbside altogether to cut loose the excess fat from my dangerously obese and burdened life. I purged myself of all Dear John letters, Immigration refusals, unopened University texts, bad poetry, failed essays, unflattering photos, souvenir pamphlets, tacky artwork, and zillions of cheap, tarnished, broken-clasped necklaces and snapped wristbands. I am now considering where everything should go. I have channeled the energy and creative inspiration of the flamboyantly gay elderly Interior Decorator (I have even donned a flashy Hawaiian shirt for the process) and I am beginning to look at the task of decorating, as a graduate art student would look at his final Installation Art piece. The cat however, is looking at it like Kim Mitchell’s Rocklandwonderland what with all the new nooks and crannies to explore.
It is fun and invigorating to sort out and organize all the items and possessions of my life, and decide on the perfect place for display in the apartment layout. So, to a single mature desperate male such as myself, everything is carefully scrutinized and positioned for the ultimate effectiveness and maximum potential for getting me laid. “I wonder if by placing my grandmothers antique porcelain tea set on the refurbished wicker table in the living room will increase my chances of receiving oral sex from a visiting member of the opposite sex as opposed to placing it as a centerpiece on the dining table in the kitchen?”, or “If I was a wanton nubile sex goddess considering carnal relations, would I be more inclined to be less-inhibited and sexually promiscuous if the authentic Star Trek collective plates are showcased in the dining room cabinet, or the living room? Bookcase?”, or even “Would I feel more inclined to give up the goods on a first date if he has attempted to decorate his bathroom with seashells and scented candles, as opposed to decorating with empty discarded toilet paper rolls and an old Hooters calendar from 1998?”. It’s the intrinsic driving thought processes behind every heterosexual male when dealing with home interior design I’m sure. All decorating efforts are creative extensions of our penis and our desires for animalistic sex. It’s what drives our nesting and decorating instincts. Even Darwin himself was guilty of displaying his dusty travelogues and behavioral science textbooks so to maximize his chances of getting some loose primitive booty.
There was a brief few minutes of extreme panic and anxiety however, when I managed to loose the cat altogether for about 10-15 heart-stopping minutes. I must have gone from Zero-to-Panic in under 30 nano-seconds. I was ready to go to the printers with posters, call in the Special Forces Task Unit, and organize neighborhood search parties to begin combing the area. In my poor drug-addled, I had envisioned that Miso had already hatched a Great Escape-style master getaway plot and had prepared his disguise, forged fake documents and a passport, and was swiftly making his way into the Woodland Avenue kitty underground network led by some French cat in a beret through the sewer pipes. Fortunately, he turned up in the linen cupboard under the bathtub enjoying a peaceful nap. But not before I had revealed myself to the neighborhood tough guy in my underwear as some nancy-ass with a cat named after a Japanese soup. “What kind of name is that for a friggin’ cat?”
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