I Hate Moving

I hurt in places I never thought I had muscles that could hurt. Somehow, in the past eight years I think I have tripled the sheer tonnage of stuff I own. Books are heavy. I purchased three new four-by-seven foot bookcases, and still I don’t seem to have enough space to file them all.

Once upon a time, my record collection (around 2,000 LPs) was the biggest problem. Now, the book collection exceeds that by a factor of four, at least in terms of sheer tonnage. The sad thing is that I really don’t own much of anything that is inessential (at least to me). No knickknacks, no furniture to speak of other than things that are easily disassembled— just media that contains lots of information and the hardware required to take advantage of it.

My hands have swollen to twice their normal size, which makes it difficult to type. The terrible thing is that I only had to move a few hundred feet. I just moved to a more palatial cave in which to hide myself. The extra room was needed to accommodate a new essential thing—a girlfriend, which makes life much less depressing.

When I stop aching, I’m sure I’ll be much happier about the change. Overall, life is much better than it has been in a long time.