The Moving Process

I'm finally getting my latest move squared away. I'm leaving the comfort of living with a clean, quiet, nice-smelling girl to live with another girl, her boyfriend and my best friend David (of whom the latter two seem to be suffering from perpetual irritable bowel syndrome.) The new place is in east Sacramento on 60th St. within walking distance of my two most frequented bars and two of my preferred eateries.

Why would I ever want to give up my simple life in Renee's condo for rowdy nights and stinky living rooms? Because it's cheaper. When you cram four people into a three-bedroom house the savings on rent alone are enormous, not to mention splitting cable, Internet and utilities four ways. I'll miss living with Renee and those two bastard cats who thought my box spring was their personal playground, but I've gotta make rational decisions about my finances. Cutting almost $250 from my monthly nut is nothing to sneeze at. The only hard part has been the actual physical act of moving all of my shit.

Heavy lifting has never really been a hobby of mine. Whenever I have to lug a box full of crap or a T.V., I get so annoyed that I almost start thinking slavery might have practical uses in the modern era. Call me old-fashioned, but there just never seems to be a shackled, shirtless negro when you really need one (unless you live in San Francisco, in which case you've probably had to tell a bare-chested black guy wearing chains to get off your stoop on more than one occasion.) Maybe that's just me being lazy.

Then there's that period of limbo between the time when your stuff is all at the new house but it's just in boxes or big piles that you have to sort out. Fuck that! If it were my destiny to be an interior designer I would have been given better fashion sense and a love of receiving anal sex. I don't want to have to worry if my feng shui is proper or if my bed should be placed such that I can enjoy the splendor of morning's first light as it slowly creeps in through my venetian blinds. I guess this time I'm not looking for a slave specifically, but a faggy Chinaman that can shimmy a bookshelf without my assistance would probably come in pretty handy.

It's all coming together, though. Another couple of days and it'll feel like my new home officially. We've already got the ping pong table out back and the poker table on order. All we need now is an official housewarming bash so that I can get wasted and throw up in my new roommate's hamper. Be it ever so humble. . .