Hoarder in the Court!

In the case of Need v. Nostalgia related to all the objects in all the piles in my room and me moving out of my parents’ house and across the cornfields, I pronounce myself abjectly guilty of a lack of direction and motivation.

Most of this process has involved me looking around the room with my hands on my hips yelling “Someone needs to make some decisions around here!!! Stop adjourning for lunch! Your honor, may I state that you look terrible today.”

Plus I lack a cat army to boost my morale in my darkest hour (because I moved my lamp).

Every object actually gets an unfair trial wherein I bring up witnesses, bystanders, standers by, and other objects to testify on its behalf.

Exhibit A: Unopened Gift Soap

“I could use this when I want to evoke that I have class, and find it again in 6 years unopened.”

Dial Soap and Assorted Batrillion Travel Soaps say, “You will never finish all of us. It’s simple math!”

Exhibit B: 1996 Crossword-Puzzle-a-Day Planner With No Completed Puzzles

“I need to improve my brain speed.”

Motivational 2007 Calendar says, “But what about my quotes?! Boost your self-esteem with meeeee instead!”

Exhibit C: A Lock of Baby Hair

“Not even a monster would discard these follicles.”

Pink Bunny Baby Toy says, “It’s either him or me, man. Him or me.”

Don’t be fooled by the amount of floor you can see, some of my stuff is lurking in plastic bags, daring me to sort through it. I stripped my bed as a warning to the rest of my room.

And let me just remind everyone that you need to appeal every emotion that is passed while looking at photos you did not realize you still had OH MY GOSH LOOK AT MY HAIR AND FRIENDS.

So basically we’re looking at a fairly long sentence with no possibility of parole. I’ve built this prison bed, now I must lay in it. OW. Get lost, slinky I thought I lost. I’m trying to be an unaccountable grown-up here, and I don’t need your whimsy.

Move It and Lose It

Today is moving day! I know, I can’t stand the magic either.

(I was at work an hour early. Someone’s going to have to pay. And I only accept a form of currency known as snarkasm.)

Changing offices should be considered a milestone in everybody’s careers.

Actually, I haven’t even been in my current office that long (and yes, I too am shocked that I have an office). I only just got it a few months ago (before that my address was Anonymous Hall Cube, Cubesville, USA).

And now, it’s time to scuttle (not unlike a crab) onward lifewise to a more enlightened place, both mentally and physically…across the hall!!!

Because windows and natural light are overrated. So is personal space for that matter. Don’t need it, don’t want it, don’t like it. At least not in that way. No, I’m lying. I’m a huge fan of personal space. From zero to polygraph in 60 seconds.

So in the moving process, which is going straightforwardly enough, I’m mainly dealing with this unforeseen piece of goodness:

The most objective form of love diagnosis available on the market today…presenting THE HEARTBOARD (heart-shaped dartboard)!!!
Here is a close-up:

I don’t know where it came from, but it was here when I moved in here. So it must come with me. It’s not going in the trash, that’s a given. No, not the recycling either. Cheap joke, hippies! And at a time like this no less! I hope you remember we’re in the middle of a climate crisis.

I can’t stay on the same subject because I am suffering from the confident delirium that can only be achieved by a good night’s lack of sleep.

This is weird. I went for a walk this morning (caused by a fire drill test, which meant that no one had to leave the building except for people who have trouble doing work with high-pitched siren ambient noise), and the entire street evoked the odor of new car smell. Not altogether unpleasant at all, but how and why?!

Oh, and for the grand finale, I just found out about this site where you can make people mixtapes. I’m thinking earth should officially consider a name change to heaven (the club). DJs spinning eight tracks all night by hand (because that’s how you manually fast-forward and rewind tapes, son! Act like you know.)

Here’s one I made (p to the s: It’s schizophrenic-sounding)!

Make sure your creepy-looking, somber inner Bollywood tiny dancer spirit has a good weekend…I know mine will!