This morning I woke up in utter panic. I can’t imagine fitting my entire friendship with Tiffany into a box and moving it to another apartment where she won’t be. And I can’t imagine pulling out all of the stuff I have stashed in places that I don’t look, so as not to remember them, and putting them in a truck to carry my bad memories to a new place. A place which is, thus far, free of scars. I will bring my baggage with me. Baggage that I can’t bear to get rid of, because I try to believe that it makes me sane. Baggage that only comes out when I can’t hide it anymore.

I am dreading putting Matt’s hat in a box. The one part of the sadness that I have displayed for all to see but for no one but me to feel. I don’t want to look at the pieces of past stashed away from view and I don’t want to have to pack my home up.

Moving freaks me out. I know that some day very soon, I load the last of my things into a truck and drive away. And I will never come home to the cold or heat of my beachy shack of an apartment and yell, “YO?” the way that I had been doing for years. The end of an era. The end of not being able to use the blow-dryer when the air conditioner/heater/computer is on. The end of twelve layers of clothes in the winter. The end of dinner parties on the porch, red wine, and Louis Prima. And all of these things, good and bad, have made this my home.

And then, on the not so depressing tip, I am trying to figure out how I am going to move my stuff! I am a chick and there is no way that me and my little chick friends are going to be able to move my bedroom furniture. The last time I moved, I had a month to do it and was still talking to Pinhead and Company, so I didn’t have issues getting things done…but NOW? I am spazzing out.