Post by Barnaby Cuthbert on Jun 17, 2005 15:01:03 GMT -8
I despise moving. I hate boxing, packing taping, hauling and inevitably breaking my stuff.
I'm a packrat. I keep everything. I have old higschool newspapers with articles I wrote and comics I drew, awards from Jr. High Drama, STUFF.
I hate taking flack for my collection of stuff too.
Heather, my beloved honeybunch of DOOM has like a half a closet of clothes and a cell phone. She doesn't understand why I keep a box of old letters sent to various NPCs when I ran Vamp, and she never will. They are memories, proof of my existence. That I did something and it was fun. Mine. My Own. My Precious. Leave them alone I tell her. Mine!
I own things.
Couches and Giant TVs and Laptops and Xboxy-type-consoles and Other General Forms of Crack.
I like my stuff, and I hate manuvering it around. I spent years the oldest child of a single mom that worked three jobs to support four kids all on her own. I had jack all. We had jack all. Anything I had was immediately ganked by my younger siblings or appropriated on their behalf by the power that be.
I hate not being able to find anything because it exists only in an abstract cardboard cubists nightmare.
Before the divorce my dad moved us every other year from the time I was four to the time I was 10. Detroit, Frisco, Orlando, Philly. It's hard enough to make friends in school as a little kid, but try showing up at a school in the middle of long division when you were just learning your times tables not one week before.
Sleeping in strange spaces. Missing bathroom stuff, or having to hunt around for it at 3AM.
Hatred.
Moving stresses me out.
Gnar.
I'm a packrat. I keep everything. I have old higschool newspapers with articles I wrote and comics I drew, awards from Jr. High Drama, STUFF.
I hate taking flack for my collection of stuff too.
Heather, my beloved honeybunch of DOOM has like a half a closet of clothes and a cell phone. She doesn't understand why I keep a box of old letters sent to various NPCs when I ran Vamp, and she never will. They are memories, proof of my existence. That I did something and it was fun. Mine. My Own. My Precious. Leave them alone I tell her. Mine!
I own things.
Couches and Giant TVs and Laptops and Xboxy-type-consoles and Other General Forms of Crack.
I like my stuff, and I hate manuvering it around. I spent years the oldest child of a single mom that worked three jobs to support four kids all on her own. I had jack all. We had jack all. Anything I had was immediately ganked by my younger siblings or appropriated on their behalf by the power that be.
I hate not being able to find anything because it exists only in an abstract cardboard cubists nightmare.
Before the divorce my dad moved us every other year from the time I was four to the time I was 10. Detroit, Frisco, Orlando, Philly. It's hard enough to make friends in school as a little kid, but try showing up at a school in the middle of long division when you were just learning your times tables not one week before.
Sleeping in strange spaces. Missing bathroom stuff, or having to hunt around for it at 3AM.
Hatred.
Moving stresses me out.
Gnar.
