Right now I am laying on the bare floor of my almost-empty apartment.

I have no furniture left. My bed has been packed up, my couch dumped in the back alley. I know, it's illegal, but I'm sure the homeless guy with the hat made out of pink wall insulation that hangs out there will appreciate somewhere to sit. Scavenging is exhausting work, you know.

I feel like I've been cheated. I'm supposed to be excited about moving, right? Maybe I am, way down underneath all this shit thats been piled on top of me. Give me a month to dig my way out and we'll see. Emotion takes up too much of my energy anyways, especially when I've got all this dishware to pack.