The Agents of Change

I hate packing. I am a forager, a keep of secrets, and a life-long pack rat. I shed long red hairs. I hate dusting. These—and many other issues—contribute to the week-before-big-move malaise I seem to be suffering from. My boyfriend is not amused. Neither is my manicure, which was just ruined by bleach and brillo. I am scrubbing in soap suds, inhaling the chemicals and choking on the change. I suck at change, and I was never a good packer. My parents used to help me pack. Now I just procrastinate, like I do with plenty of obnoxious affairs in life, and watch the dust bunnies collect under the tv set. My boyfriend wants me to throw it away. It’s an old tube television. It’s heavier than I am. But I don’t like to throw things away. I like to keep them in closets, hold onto them like a steadfast friend, and forget about them until I have to move. Next weekend, it’s happening. Chemicals be damned.


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