moving is a weird thing. it forces you to look through all the embarrassing shit you've collected, clothes you've grown out of and dust you've neglected to vacuum from under your bed. while i was throwing garbage into bags and keepsakes into boxes i tried to tally up how many times i've done this. i think it's my thirtieth move. that's fucked.
in six years i've evolved from living out of backpack to having more books, cameras, movies and kitchen gear than i know what to do with. (ok, ok, i know what to do with all of it: hoard, display, stare, love) i've decided that i no longer need to cart around empty booze bottles, broken skateboards, childhood stuffed animals, band shirts i haven't fit into since high school, movie tickets from dates with exes, every piece of furniture i've found on the street, etc.
you remember that time you had a house party and in a drunken, coke-fueled stupor you just had to bring out your grade eight valedictorian plaque, childhood home videos, pictures that prove your high school haircut/flatchestedness and onesie your mom took you home from the hospital in in an effort to, i don't know, entertain your bored friends? yeah, well, i've done all those things and it's over! i'm ditching the baggage, losing the junk and giving away the unopened promo cds i only acquired because they were free in the first place. it's a stacey mccool sale and none of you are invited. well, unless you regularly hang around outside my apartment waiting for me to throw boxes labelled 'free' into the night. in which case, look up! i'm all nekkid on the third floor... just playin'. i'm at work. sicko.