Ow.
I am sore. Bits of me that I didn't even know I had are hurty today. Yes, I said "hurty". Hipsters will be using it in a year or two, mark my words. The irony event horizon is hurtling toward us faster than a single speed bicycle powered by the bottomless energy generated by thrift store purchases and morose journal entries.
I'm sore because I moved all my stuff from my storage unit this weekend. It was an ordeal frought with pain, sadness, and spores. The only good part about it was that it was only about 80 degrees on Sunday, compared to the 113 degrees of last weekend. The bad parts are numerous. I will explain.
First of all, I couldn't get any help. Everyone in my area was either gone or otherwise occupied. So I moved my stuff by myself. I rented a 16 foot truck. I drove to the storage unit. I walked down to the basement, pinched the crap out of my finger on the goddamn lock thingie, and rolled the door up. A weird funk drifted out, redolent of moist things. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed that all of the boxes that were on the floor had lovely water marks halfway up their sides. I tried to move one, but it was stuck to the floor.
It wasn't just the bottoms, either. Several boxes were subject to Death From Above via ceiling drips. Hooray. Opening the boxes revealed several stages of ruin and mold. My signed Ray Bradbury book: soggy, black with spores, ruined. My signed Douglas Adams book: soggy, black with spores AND creepy little bugs, and also ruined. Old journals, entire sheafs of photos irreversibly stuck together, the faces and memories they displayed lost forever.
On the positive side, I hadn't looked at any of that stuff for years. On the negative side, that was mostly due to laziness. Ah well. All told, I wrassled a sofa, a bookcase, several boxes of books, a box of ancient records, a few boxes of computer equipment, two mattresses, a headboard and a footboard, several miscellaneous items of furniture, and a marble slab. It's an ANTIQUE marble slab, which means that it gains weight in direct proportion to antiquity. At least, that's what it felt like.
So now my garage is full, my storage unit is empty, and my past is a little hazier.
Oh, and my ass hurts. I still haven't been able to figure that one out...
I'm sore because I moved all my stuff from my storage unit this weekend. It was an ordeal frought with pain, sadness, and spores. The only good part about it was that it was only about 80 degrees on Sunday, compared to the 113 degrees of last weekend. The bad parts are numerous. I will explain.
First of all, I couldn't get any help. Everyone in my area was either gone or otherwise occupied. So I moved my stuff by myself. I rented a 16 foot truck. I drove to the storage unit. I walked down to the basement, pinched the crap out of my finger on the goddamn lock thingie, and rolled the door up. A weird funk drifted out, redolent of moist things. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed that all of the boxes that were on the floor had lovely water marks halfway up their sides. I tried to move one, but it was stuck to the floor.
It wasn't just the bottoms, either. Several boxes were subject to Death From Above via ceiling drips. Hooray. Opening the boxes revealed several stages of ruin and mold. My signed Ray Bradbury book: soggy, black with spores, ruined. My signed Douglas Adams book: soggy, black with spores AND creepy little bugs, and also ruined. Old journals, entire sheafs of photos irreversibly stuck together, the faces and memories they displayed lost forever.
On the positive side, I hadn't looked at any of that stuff for years. On the negative side, that was mostly due to laziness. Ah well. All told, I wrassled a sofa, a bookcase, several boxes of books, a box of ancient records, a few boxes of computer equipment, two mattresses, a headboard and a footboard, several miscellaneous items of furniture, and a marble slab. It's an ANTIQUE marble slab, which means that it gains weight in direct proportion to antiquity. At least, that's what it felt like.
So now my garage is full, my storage unit is empty, and my past is a little hazier.
Oh, and my ass hurts. I still haven't been able to figure that one out...
coughed this up at 3:21 PM
4 El Commentos:
Ken Chuck,
I was torn between sadness and laughter whilst I read that. Spores: not so good. They feel even better in your lungs. I've been there. I was a veritable Swamp Thingy at that point.
My deepest condolences on the loss of kick-ass signed books. I only have a BFG signed by the man himself & Quinton Blake, whose name I'm misspelling, despite copious attempts at reworking the letters, but whose illustrations are top-notch. It's in my folks house so as, well, so as not to get devoured by insects & mildew. I won't say I told you so since I never told you nothing.
Oh yes. And I will be reading HHGTTG this trip. There are no two ways about it. No three ways either, for that matter.
I would have helped you. You should have asked!
Well, you will know for next time!
you should drink some wine....
Now you don't have to kick off the chains of the past. They've been kicked off for you. Your ass hurts because you're free. Wait, what?!
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