I've had this headache since Thursday. It lessens sometimes, but never fully goes away, and it feels like there is a village of angry Smurfs behind my right eye that keeps stabbing me. I wish I could just pop my eyeball out and relieve the pressure -- I have myself convinced that there would just be a little wooshing noise and RELIEF, then I would just pop my eyeball back in.
My finals were done on Thursday, and I haven't stopped moving since aside from a few hours spent wasting time making Borscht under the watchful eye and iron fist of Mama from Cooking Mama. I've been sorting, packing, cleaning, and painting. It turns out that we own a lot of crap. I had deluded myself because it was all stacked away so neatly into relatively small stacks around the apartment. I thought, "We won't need too many boxes. I'm sure we have too many already!" We have run out of cardboard boxes and the only thing we've packed up has been the books. And even those aren't fully packed up.
It's becoming clear we're going to die under our massive pile of ephemera. And as it crushes in on me, I will be thinking to myself, "Hey. I haven't read that book in awhile. I should do that soon." Because I am delusional.
In addition to packing up our entire life in preparation for living on the mean streets of Detroit (Rather, 19 stories up, where I can look down at the mean streets of Detroit and ponder the odds of both the black and white citizens stabbing me to death during my trek to the drugstore to buy tampons because they think I'm some sort of ghostly apparition/albino demon come to steal their essences.) (I'm so pale I'm translucent. I don't show up in mirrors anymore. I don't need x-rays -- they can just hold me up in front of a 60-watt bulb to inspect my bones and watch my tablespoon of blood race around my body.), we are trying to set up moving plans with my parents, who offered to help us move. The operative word there is TRYING because it seems like every time we get a tentative plan set up, something changes and then a clump of my hair falls out from stress because I do. not. like. changes. to. my. plans. I made a plan, I made a diagram outlining the plan, I made a flowchart regarding questions ABOUT the plan, and THIS IS THE PLAN DO NOT CHANGE THE PLAN.
An earlier conversation re: The Plan ended with me in tears and shrieking, "Well fine! I make plans and they change and why do I even bother and our stuff will never make it to the new apartment and wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." I know I'm overreacting. My parents are kind and reliable and will make sure that we do, in fact, make it to our new apartment with all of our stuff in tow. However, I'm furiously making backup plans with letters and titles -- things like, "Plan M: Cat Pulls Tiny Wagon" -- and googling furiously -- "Load bearing capacity of 8 lb. tabby cat."
I'm going to go find a spoon and pop my eye out.
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