September 02, 2009

And Now.

So I packed my last box tonight. I labelled it, "Chris: last box." (Everything else has my name and some mostly accurate description of the contents. I feel "last box" sums up the contents, though: 2 or 3 books, a magnet board, a ton of hangers, a couple of shirts, a purse or two, my Dolly Delta bear, and other odds and ends that hadn't worked their way into other boxes.)

It's weird, seeing everything I own all folded or stuffed into boxes and ready to be moved away. And also kind of terrifying because I couldn't tell you where any of my stuff is. Like, I am sure that the copy of A Prayer for Owen Meany is in a box, one of them, but I could not even venture a guess as to which one. And what if I want to read it? In the next day? I haven't read it yet, and I have been meaning to, and really, talking about this right now is making me feel kind of queasy. (This is also why I hate lending books, I need to know that if at any time I want to read whatever book it is that I want to read, I am capable of doing that. Being limited by my boxes is killing me, even though I am happily mid book.) I also, you know, am not sure if I left enough out of boxes. I have a few tee shirts out for moving day and the next couple of days, and I think I remembered everything, but what if I didn't? You can read about my unfortunate packing habits here.

I am excited, though. I am excited to fully unpack for the first time, really, since I moved out of my childhood home. I mean, I moved to and from the Delta Shelta on campus and all that, but even then I had boxes at home with everything for whatever season it wasn't. And then I'd move home for the summer and keep the vast majority of everything in a box, waiting to be taken back to Ohio.

And now.

I'm also really emotional. I'm leaving my mother, who is trying to hold it together for me and kind of not doing so hot. It was safe here, you know? And now...what?

I'm just glad Sir is coming with me. And Mr. Bear. It's like a dream team of tear catching. (Seriously, why is it that fur--artificial or otherwise--catches tears better than anything else?)

On a side note, Sir did really well with taking his pills for two full days. Then he realized that I wasn't just giving him pats of butter for the hell of it. Now, he licks around the pill and then gets mad. (Notice he gets mad after licking the sides of the butter, which I think he does just to piss me off.) I have officially begun shoving them down his throat, coated in butter. Awesome.

This from a cat who has literally stolen the following things off of my plate: pork chops, ham, a peanut butter cookie (it didn't agree with him), spaghetti, yogurt of any variety, ice cream, corn out of my Chipotle burrito, cake, and many, many more. Yet. SOMEHOW. I can't get him to take a g-d pill. Then again, he also refuses to drink tap water.

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