The Fall of the House of Whelmed

It wasn't until this morning, as I listened to this song in my car after seeing Liz and Don off on their multi-state adventure, that I broke down and cried. It's not that moving has been hard - physically tolling, yes, but really nothing I haven't done before - but that this last year has been so good. It's hard to imagine it ending. Even writing this now in my new bedroom, filled with boxes waiting to be unpacked, my brain thinks I will eventually go back to Clark Street. My gosh, that's melodramatic.

Regardless, I am all moved into the new digs. My roomies are diligently working through their first weekend of qualifying exams while I'm attempting to be quiet while unpacking. I'm being partially successful.

I was brutal with this move, culling the collection of stuff in ridiculous ways. I'm a sentimental hoarder: I keep things because someone made it for me, bought it for me. Items that I don't use but hold onto because I feel I have to. My fourth move in as many years and enough was enough: I dropped two carloads of things at Goodwill, which, judging from the line of cars at their donation door, had a very good day today. So much schtuff.

Schtuff that needs to be unpacked. I should go do some of just that.