I think moving is the worst thing in the world. Moving, and the associated packing of things, make me a neurotic mess. I would rather have a root canal than move. I've never had a root canal; I hear they're painful but I understand they come with drugs. Not that bad of a deal if you ask me. I would rather have a pap smear than move. I have had a pap smear, and they are outrageously uncomfortable, but I'll take half an hour of awkward over three days of stress and panic.
I believe the problem starts with the fact that I have too much shit. I am probably one decently tragic event from going off the deep end and ending up on Hoarders. As it stands, I am stuck somewhere between sentimental pack rat and too lazy to throw stuff out. Wristbands from concerts, notes from high school, shitty poems I wrote when I was twelve, shoelaces I stole from the bowling alley in college, cool beer glasses I inexplicably and consistently steal from restaurants, books I read and have no desire to read again, trinkets I still delight in buying from the quarter machines in front of Wal-Mart, I still have all that crap. Every time I move, I am forced to go through all of it and decide if I really need to keep random item A that reminds me of time B with person C. It's a formulaic mindfuck that usually has me keeping unrecognizable scraps of junk because I have a hard time throwing away things associated with memories.
When I get through sorting through the crap, I must then pack the crap. I usually start with boxes and suitcases like a normal person, but by the end of the anxiety-ridden process I am throwing odds and ends into old purses and beach totes and those reusable Publix shopping bags. (To be fair, using the Publix bags is better for the environment than cardboard boxes and makes moving to/from the third floor way easier, so suck it, okay?)
Then the crap has to go in my car. But guess what? My car is full of crap too! So before I can transport my crap I have to sort through and throw away more crap. And when I do transport said crap, I have to unpack it all and organize it all over again. It's really, well, crappy.
This is the process I go through when moving. I have moved nine times in the last five years. It sucks each and every time. I become a pathetic mess that goes from zero to bitch in four-point-go-fuck-yourself seconds. It's not pretty, and it's not fun for anyone even remotely involved.
Today I was going through crap and I started to get overwhelmed. I know this game, however, and if I take lots of little breaks to do something else, I can handle it. Yes, I have the mind of child. So I went to get something to eat and that's when I saw it.
In the door of the refrigerator there was bottle of orange juice. Tropicana orange juice. With "some pulp". This made my taste buds do a little jig, because I happen to love Tropicana orange juice with some pulp. Not "lots of pulp" (that's a real label, no joke) because if I wanted lots of pulp I'd take out the Tropicana middle man and just eat a frickin' orange. Mmm... orange juice.
Problem? This was not my orange juice. I have two roommates, both whom I love dearly and would donate a kidney to without hesitation. I was sure it wasn't Roomie Who I Used To Date's orange juice because when we dated before he never bought orange juice. And if it were his, I'd drink it anyway because once you've slept with someone it somehow becomes okay to drink their orange juice without asking. That leaves Roomie Who I've Not Dated, and since I've not seen his penis, I felt uncomfortable with the thought of drinking his orange juice. And there was no taking a sip that wouldn't be missed, for this was a 12 ounce bottle of perfect Tropicana some pulp orange juice. All or nothing. Fuck.
I closed the door and went back to crap sorting. I went through a box of old papers from school and a box of arts and crafts supplies. When it was break time again, I was still hungry but I felt I could not control myself in the presence of Orange Juice so I smoked a cigarette instead. Then back to crap sorting, but I could see the bottle in my mind, taunting me, calling out to me with promises of quenched thirst and citrusy goodness.
I started a load of laundry. I am convinced that I am the only one in the apartment who cleans out the lint trap, so I emptied it, yet again, and made my way to the trash can. In the kitchen. By the fridge. Still hungry, I opened the pantry. Not in the mood to make anything or munch on a granola bar, I opened the fridge. Maybe I'll just eat a slice of cheese, I thought. Reaching for the cheese, my arm bumped the Orange Juice. Oh, fancy meeting you here. Again my taste buds sprang into lust, the back of my mouth watering with a pang of desire. Oh, you temptress.
I don't know if it was the stress from packing or crap sorting or the anxiety of leaving or the lack of sleep or the fact that I am just a complete weirdo, but I swear to your religious figure of choice that I have never wanted anything more in my entire life than I wanted the Orange Juice in that moment.
I am not a strong person. And like passionate lovers in the night, it only took one glance and I was clawing at the plastic seal around the cap, my vigorous movements shaking the pulp, sending it in frenzied swirls around the bottle whose curves I caressed in my aching fingers. The cap was off now, dropped on the floor in my frantic efforts at release... goddammit is this another fucking seal? I tore at it, slipping at first, but then it gave way between my thumb and forefinger and in a smooth, swift motion it was in my mouth, crashing in waves of ecstasy over my tongue and sliding down my throat like it was part of me and we were never supposed to be separated again. It was. The best fucking orange juice. I've ever had.
Upon devouring every last sinful drop, I immediately felt ashamed. I love my Roomie unconditionally. He is one of my very best, closest friends and I am constantly grateful to have him in my life. In addition to being one of my best friends, he is also a great roommate. He's clean and courteous and fun and considerate and sometimes he makes me breakfast. And here I am, violating all laws of human decency by drinking his orange juice. He spent his hard earned money on the orange juice and I took it away. There must be a special place in hell for people like me.
I sent Roomie the following text: "Look, I drank your orange juice and I'm really fucking sorry. I hope you can find it in you to forgive me." It's been several hours and I've yet to receive a reply.
And this is why I should never be allowed to handle grown up tasks like moving all by myself.
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