You are the worst. You are tedious, you are frustrating, you make me want to tear out my already fragile hair.
Oh, Space Saver bags? You’re great (in theory.) I like when you work, extra-large cube bag. As for you, large cube bag…you have about thirty holes. Duct tape is not working with your clear, shitty exterior, and you make me want to cry a little. Where’s your receipt? Oh, the trash? Neat.
How is it that I can’t find all the things I know I’m going to want when I go? Those stupid bags, shoes, and other girltastic items that have been in my closet for years and now I decide I need…why? Why am I such a girl in this sense? Though I’m thrilled I bailed on two more bags for Goodwill to add to the three I gave last year at this time, I still have so. much. useless. shit.
Also, Ke$ha, you are NOT assisting. Your pump-up music is taking me immediately back to my birthday party. Except I don’t have a cute dress on and a gin & tonic in my hand. I have a sweaty t-shirt and Yoga for Beginners and the Quick Guide to Wine being jammed into a box. Yet here I sit, bobbing my head to Blow and laughing at how this place is in fact, about to blow. With clothing, books, shoes, and photos.
Hurricane Irene has somehow made it to my parent’s house, second floor, room on the end. Because hurricanes in Wisconsin make sense.
Packing, you are the worst. The bane of my existence. The thought of doing this just to undo it in two days brings literal tears to my eyes. And I’ll be unloading all of my stuff into an empty house with zero storage space. Good thing I’ve got these Space Saver bags. I might crawl on in and vacuum the air out, check out of life for a while. See what you do to me, packing? Actual maniacal thoughts. Great.
If you need me, I’ll either be rocking back and forth in the corner, dancing like it’s 11:30 and my friends wanna leave the club, or eating in a panic from fear of losing energy to continue said rocking and dancing.