It begins. It’s moving day. This is the weekend I leave my
small, disgusting upper west side apartment and move to Brooklyn. It might be
my last night sleeping in my bunk bed! I’ve already started the process:
Step 1: Wake up, drink coffee made to the intensity of
rocket fuel in underwear with roommate #1.
Step 2: Stop at the
delicious and comforting Absolute Bagels to try to bring about a will to live.
(Last night, after going out to gay clubs with my Aussie
friend, I found myself bent over the toilet, vomiting whiskey and sushi around
2 am. I also put at least ten $1 bills into a gay dancer’s G-string. This is
the sort of nonsense this girl gets me to do.)
Step 3: Go to the bank and withdraw money needed for paying
roommate #1 for the bills, his bed, money order for the security deposit on my
apartment, and for paying movers tomorrow. I’ll basically just be hemorrhaging
money all weekend.
Step 4: Buy boxes, collect things, and pack them up.
Roommate #2 finally gave me back the glass from my picture frame that he’s been
borrowing to do lines of cocaine. My laundry is in process at the laundromat,
and otherwise I don’t have a whole lot of stuff strewn about the apartment.
Luckily, I haven’t acquired much living here, but I always
tend to drag out the entire process of packing. Man. I hate moving.
