Moving Day

“Why the fuck would you want to keep the birthday candles?”

Moving is a hellish act. Human beings spend most of their existence collecting, buying, coveting and re-shuffling their stuff, and it is always a violent, shocking and brutal experience to be confronted with all of that stuff at once. You are forced to evaluate everything, to wade through the material side of your life, and question every choice you’ve made in the matter.

It’s enough to make one drink, and keep drinking, until the idea of tossing the entire mess of papers, books, furniture, and clothes into the fucking dumpster doesn’t sound too awful.

It’s worse when you have to do it with someone else. You spend most of the time avoiding the judging of your own stuff, and judging someone else’s. It makes you feel better, to belittle their possessions, while defending and championing a stack of your old yearbooks, some young adult novels and faded Christmas cards stuffed with un-cashed ten dollar checks from Grandma.

This leads to questions like,

“Why the fuck would you want to keep the birthday candles?”

Nobody is innocent when moving. Everyone, and everything sucks.

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