I was going to start off by telling you to lay off me. I’m moving. I haven’t had the time to update this thing or write shorts… Or really do much of anything. Then I saw the date. It’s been four flippin’ months! To my five viewers – viewership has been great! But really… That’s good for me. Keep your sympathy claps. It’s probably fine.
Let me have it. Give me the glares and the words. Give me your judgements. I deserve them. Or something. Maybe a punch in the face, shake some of this spring snot out of my sinus holes.
That’s gross. I apologize for that…
But! Moving is happening. And this is stressful. It’s stressful in the worst sense of the word. Not because of relocation. Not because it’s a completely new thing where I have zero idea of what to do or how to do it. No. Nope. That’s good. All good. The problem?
Boxes. Everywhere. All the time. Forever. They will never go away. They’re worse than laundry and dishes combined. They hold my whole life and are highly flammable with highly flammable things inside and spark-inducing triggers. Whose bright, flippin’ idea was that?! Put your whole life in a box and move it somewhere else while simultaneously hoping someone doesn’t drown it in gasoline and throw a lit cigarette at it. WHO WOULD DO THAT?! ….
I probably would. I like fire. Look at the name…. But those damn boxes… Might need a smoke just to deal with the thought of potentially setting all of my things on fire…
Make a drink
Have a stogie
Put stuff in boxes
Seal the boxes
Pour the drink on the boxes
Toss the stogie on the soaked boxes
No more boxes to move….
I sense a solution.