I HATE moving. I hate everything about it. I hate leaving a comfortable place. I hate leaving a place that I hate – the venom for the place lingers in all my stuff, all my memories, all my boxes of crap that need to be sorted out somewhere in future time. I have packing up all those boxes of ‘stuff only I can pack’ (SOICP). SOICP is the essence of my life. It is the manifestation of my being, which means that If someone else packs it, I lose touch with part of me. I have schlepping, boy to I hate schlepping. Schlepping is inescapable. It is the thing that everyone hates the most, it is why you stay friends with assholes with pick-up trucks, it is why moving sucks. I believe that the whole Arab-Israeli conflict is rooted not in religion, but in the compounded rage of those two people over being forced to schlep their shit all over the globe for 3000 years.
I hate the lose ends. The cable guy came and installed the box, why can’t he come and pick the damn thing up?! Why do the moving boxes cost more than stocks on the NASDAQ? And whatever happened to relocation allowances? Get this fucker, I DON”T WANT A JOB, so if you want me to work for you then you have to bring me to the job, or the job to me, none of this well, we are going to hire you, but you start in two weeks and you have to pick up your whole live and move across country. Give us the receipts and we’ll argue about how much we pay you back until next tax year when we say $0.95 per mile take it or leave it. Fuck that, bitches.
I hate renting. I hate this fucking idea that i have to clean the apartment after all my shit is gone. Motherfucker, I lived here, it was clean enough for me, now gimme my deposit.
I hate having to peel the scabs of life just so that I get the privilege of breaking my back to load the U-haul, then drive the damn land barge across five states listening to country-western music and extremist Christian Neo-conservative fascist rhetorical diatribe and the call ins from the morons who think that morality comes on an a la carte menu just like at the Chuck Wagon, and you can pick and choose which parts of Leviticus you want to believe, and which parts you want to ignore. All on AM radio, while sitting on uncomfortable seats with no lumbar support for that back you through out loading the truck. Then you get to sleep in shit ass hotel rooms, eat shit ass fast food, drink shit ass coffee with room temperature non-dairy creamer made from yesterdays cheap ass wholesale pre-ground, swept up the plant floor delivered in a fifty pound can coffee.
And the reward? Welcome to the new city where you know no-one, have no life, have a job you don’t want, and no asshole with a pick-up truck to help you unload the truck into your 4th floor apartment with the broken elevator. If your life was a beer commercial, there would be a pair of ultra hot super model looking lawyers living next door with ice cold micro-brews and pizza knocking at your door just when you think one more step will give you a brain aneurysm. But your life isn’t a beer commercial, its a commercial that is shown on the daytime TV to the old and getting older demographic, so instead of the hotties, you get the bitchy old lady who can’t hear a word you say but can tell if your music is above 3dB and how often you masturbate to the Victoria’s Secret catalog that gets delivered to the last tenant, who was a man.
I hate moving.