Moving
I want to move into my new house so badly. The delay, this time, has been too much of a delay to be pleasurable. There is always a point at which delay--even if you're really into it--becomes cumbersome and less enticing than previous. I am going to stuff some boxes in Tungsten today (while other people are watching the Superbowl, perhaps) and unload them in the garage at 1147.
I want to be done with this stage. I want to be cemented to something permanent for a while. Even the carpet in this rental house is turning me off. It's too dog hairy and stains too easily. The paint on the walls is too thin and rubs off at the slightest nudge from my sponge. The neighborhood I once liked has become creepy and scary, like something out of Edward Scissorhands. There's nothing at all the matter with 50 Dolphin, but it has become the place I don't want to be.
I want to be done with this stage. I want to be cemented to something permanent for a while. Even the carpet in this rental house is turning me off. It's too dog hairy and stains too easily. The paint on the walls is too thin and rubs off at the slightest nudge from my sponge. The neighborhood I once liked has become creepy and scary, like something out of Edward Scissorhands. There's nothing at all the matter with 50 Dolphin, but it has become the place I don't want to be.