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Moving On

You don’t realize how much stuff it is you actually own, until you have to move it all.

In all honesty, I’m not entirely sure why I did it. As I often say, I got more friends than I got fingers, so I’ll be fine. And yes, I’m fully fingered. I could have asked any number of people to help out, but that would ostensibly cause my brain to do a whole lot of mental, mathematical, and hypothetical gymnastics. None of which I’m particularly fond of, or keen on doing. Whom do I ask? Whom do I avoid? Of the people I do dare ask, who’s actually willing? Let alone available. People have their own lives and schedules. Contrary to popular belief, but the world doesn’t actually revolve around me. Shocking, I know. Although, it’d be a lot cooler if it did.

I’m statistically speaking far more likely to twist the arms of my fellow comrades, contemporaries, and compatriots from passive aggressive slave labour into indentured servitude if I vaguely allude to the possibility of pizza and beer at the end of the entire ordeal. That’s usually the assumed and least painful hand-wavy way of getting out of forcibly giving people cold hard cash. Hey, I’m by no means a Scrooge, but even ol’ Ebenezer himself needed to eat. I’d rather just give myself a pizza party when all was said and done. What you may see as selfish, I prefer to call pragmatic.

I could always hire professional movers, but that would mean I’d have to fork over the aforementioned bills of clashing colour and differing denomination. And while they may be considered as professionals in their particular profession, that doesn’t matter in the slightest to me. Not even one iota. If there’s anyone I trust to handle my stuff properly, it’s gonna be me. If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.

You don’t realize how much stuff it is you actually own, until you have to move it all. Maybe stubbornly doing this all by my lonesome was a bad idea, but I’ll never admit it. At least out loud. Only in print. Digital, or otherwise. Boxes upon boxes of clothes. Dishes, cups, and mugs that are all equal parts sentimental and fragile. The cute little shelving unit that you had to shove into the corner, half covered by the kitchenette because it literally wouldn’t fit anywhere else in this shoebox of a prison. Chateau d’If was more accommodating. The IKEA twin bed you bought six years ago, replete with the somewhat useful but oftentimes deceptively useless Allen key too. Who is Allen anyway, and why does he have so many keys? Keys that drive one to utter windswept madness in the darkest parts of that very same soul.

Most important of all-- is your nice 55” flatscreen, and the overly cumbersome TV stand underneath it. Within the confines of the stand are your precious PS5, original Xbox and original N64. Plus, all your controllers and all your games. Don’t forget those classic goodies. There’s one big problem with this whole transitional enterprise though-- I don’t got myself a car. Yes, I’ve got my license, calm down. My full license, I’ll have you know! I just never needed a car living in the very heart of downtown. Until now that is...

Would you believe it, if I told you I moved almost every single thing I owned-- by hand-- on the train-- and the bus? Over the course of three weeks? By myself? Well, I did. Alright fine, I got an Uber for the TV and accompanying stand, but only because those two key pieces are legit too awkward and unwieldy to hand-bomb them. Even with five dexterous digits on each hand. Otherwise you can bet your bippy I totally woulda. It’s also important to note that in those two Uber trips I tipped both drivers very well. On top of their respective five-star ratings. Like I said, I’m no Scrooge.

To say that the new place is an upgrade from the old one, well that would be an understatement. It’s an absolute glow up. The room is decidedly far more spacious than the solitary confinement insane asylum of days long gone yore. Snapped out of utter existence is the twin bed in favour of a glorious queen. It’s a mattress made of dreams.

There’s also a comfy, cozy common room with couches, and a real kitchen. With an actual stove, oven, fridge, and freezer. The things you miss. My favourite part of the whole thing is in all honesty, the laundry room. Going from coin-operated scams for three and a half years to normal-sized laundry and dryer that don’t cost you a thing-- is one of the greatest joys in modern adult life. You know you’re in your thirties when free laundry is a great victory. Real talk, the sound of clothes tumbling around in a dryer is specifically so pleasing to my ears. Just one of my favourite things.

Speaking of things to listen to, do you hear that? Nothing? Yeah, neither do I. Also absent, are the incessant fire alarms, power outages, gunshots, firecrackers, fire trucks or head-splitting caterwauling of all manner of people out at all hours of the night.

In the new fresh place of clean beginnings, all I smell is pure mountain air, oxygenated by forest upon forest of nothing but coniferous trees. At the end of the day, all I really want to do is sit in my backyard where I can casually kick my feet up, spark up a nice joint and watch the sunset in real time.

Now I can. Perfect. Utterly perfect. They don’t call it Magic Hour for nothing.


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