Can I Borrow Your Truck?

No one likes to move. It's pretty much the worst part of being a college student. Or the worst part of being a person who needs a place to live, for that matter. Anyway, since I'm not in college anymore and not moving every year, it's nice to look back on those times and recap the horridness of it all. I have moved nine times since I was 18 years old (a couple of homeless months in between where I was living out of the trunk of my car and a few friend's couches) which is a ridiculous amount of moves.

Once, I was being forced out of a beautiful condo I was living in (by forced, I mean my lease was up and they were like, "hey, you kind of need to go") and I just plain old did not want to leave my gorgeous condominium and instead of trying to find a decent place to move into, I staged a stand-in (which incidentally I was the only one aware of the stand-in because I was living alone and I didn't fill the owner in on the revolution that was taking place at 5D) and refused to pack anything until the day the lease was up and my ass needed to be gone. So when Mother Dear and boyfriend extraordinaire showed up to help me move my shit, there were no boxes to pack and nowhere to take it to. Enter last-minute-mildew-stained-blue-carpet-apartment-with-stripper-roommate-who-only-spoke-to-me-through-a-closed-door. That was fun.

(Thanks, mom, for making me face facts and move away from the condo. And all the other times you have cleverly packed a truck and/or U-Haul like an extravagantly thought out game of Tetris. And thanks, Bryan Parker, for moving me probably about five out of those nine times.)

This is me and my wonderful ex-boyfriend B.P.

...

Um, okay. Apparently in some drunken rage, I deleted any and all photos of my "wonderful ex-boyfriend," so here is a picture of Reagan with Bryan "Porker" at the Tap.

Another moving day, my current roommate Sophia and I were moving from campus to (current neighborhood) and Sophia, who had been in the apartment for a year before I moved in, had formed a sentimental attachment to the place. And while Sophia and I are a lot alike in that we don't like change, this time, I was excited for this particular move and wanted to haul ass to said destination.

Here's me: nasty ponytail due to no shower in two days from packing my ass off, doo rag (Antoine style), Hamilton Bulldog volleyball cut-off tee, cut-off shorts, Converse tennys, and mad determination (no-boyfriend-to-help-this-time style). I literally moved the entire apartment, heavy furniture and all, by myself, while...

Sophia: gorgeous straightened black hair, full clad in makeup and blue baby doll dress, moped around the apartment recollecting any and all previous times we had had in the dining room, at the pool, or by the sink. There was even a tupperware incident when Sophia, bless her heart, tried to help the moving along by organizing the plastic containers and packed them nicely in a cardboard, which ended in tears and tragedy; where she wondered aloud how it was that we had acquired so many tupperware containers together? and why did we have to get rid of some of them? and how would we ever replace them?

Throughout the moving ordeal I would momentarily have to pause in order to comfort my pensive roommate. I would be fervently shoving pots and pans in a box and look over at Soph, only to find her crumpled on the linoleum with a mixing bowl, crying.

"Brynnan, remember that time we made cookies? And we ate them all that same afternoon?"

"Brynnan, remember that time you had never watched 'When Harry Met Sally' and we sat on this couch together and watched it?"

"Brynnan, remember the time we didn't have any clean dishes and we had to eat from these Styrofoam plates?"

Moving sucks. If you can, I would highly suggest avoiding it.