Saturday, April 21, 2012

J is for Junk

            I’m moving again. I have lived in this apartment for two years and twenty-five days. I’m not ready to go. I thought everything would be fine and dandy; I’m moving closer to school and will save $170 every month. That’s a lot. Unfortunately, it is so much cheaper because I am moving out of a large, two bedroom apartment and moving into a shoebox. Baby shoes.


            Packing is bringing up bad memories. Last time I packed, it was to move out of Ex’s house. The act of sorting through our things into “mine” and “his” piles was so hard I thought it would kill me. It is also when I started drinking. A lot. (See “A is for Alcohol” if you want the gory details.) So, packing is bringing up urges to drink. My psychiatrist told me I need to go to AA but I don’t want to. Not at all – so I have decided to just stop drinking.

            Easier said than done. My junk is not packing itself!

            I am shocked by the large amount of junk I have. There are some things I have had since childhood, like jacks and a rubber ball, which I haven’t touched since I was twelve but have packed and moved with me for years. It is a bit ridiculous. I am taking a boat load of junk to the thrift store. Included in that junk is my wedding dress.


           I can't believe I just called my wedding dress junk. It is a beautiful dress and I could probably sell it for a few hundred dollars but I don’t think I could stand to see someone wearing my dress. I would rather just go to sleep at night knowing that some happy woman just hit the jackpot at the thrift store.

            One girl’s junk is another girl’s jackpot.

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Don't make me talk to myself, yo.

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