On Taking Only What You Need From It.

Packing sucks.

Moving sucks.

See the picture to the right--the one where they're smiling and happy? The one where they're not thinking of ways to fake their own deaths in an attempt to get out cleaning their house? Yeah. That one.

It's bullshit propaganda.

NO ONE IS THAT CHEERFUL ON MOVING DAY. Normal people have three empty cans of Red Bull in front of them and are kind of twitchy and are ready to snap if they find EVEN ONE MORE GODDAMN DVD after they've already taped up the DVD box. Or, if they're slightly troubled (I say 'troubled' because it sounds nicer than 'fucked up') like myself, they're already drunk at 11 am, because they found that bottle of Crown Royal they were too drunk to finish on New Year's and remembered there was Diet Coke in the fridge and so figured, Hell, maybe that'll take the edge off of this whole ulcer-inducing process. Or, at least mellow out the caffeine/nicotine buzz I've been riding all morning...

Every time I move, I resolve to simplify. To cut back on possessions, to minimize, to only take what I need/can carry. And that philosophy serves me well... For about a week. And then I'm back to collecting. I've accumulated more shit than any person in my situation could ever possibly need.

And you know, I think I might be alright with packing and cleaning and the whole moving routine (and trust me: by now, it is routine) if I were moving to someplace I wanted to be. But I'm moving to Billings, so I'm not excited about the move, which makes it hard to get motivated. And I'm not going to hop on the bandwagon and declare that Billings is Satan's asshole, because it's not. I've been to Satan's asshole, and it's in Washington. But Billings is definitely Satan's lower back, or maybe his upper thigh, and I'm not thrilled about the whole thing.

At least twice today, I found myself standing perfectly still, staring at nothing, simply because I was too overwhelmed to function.

And I'm up for round two tomorrow. My plan is to listen to "Kids" on full volume, on repeat, until my subconscious learns its lesson and I remember that stuff is just stuff and I don't need more stuff . Or maybe I'll just finish that bottle of Crown. We'll see.


"Kids" by MGMT

On The Matter of Reading.

I finished a book yesterday. As in, sat down and read a book cover-to-cover. Most of this reading was done in a coffee shop adjoined to a book store, which made me feel very much like the Danielle-of-seven-or-eight-years-ago, when I would go to Barnes & Noble on a Sunday afternoon, stake out the comfiest of the couches, and (without actually purchasing it) read (in its entirety) whatever new novel the New Yorker was ranting about. If it was a particularly long novel, I would use a toothpick as a bookmark, so I could just pick up where I left off the next Sunday. Only once did the book I bookmarked ever get sold before I could finish it.

Anyway. I actually bought the book I read yesterday. But it was at a used bookstore, so I still feel like I was cheating someone out of something. Maybe like I was cheating Joe Meno, author of Hairstyles of the Damned (the book I bought/read), out of his cut from the sale of the book. Or maybe not. It was a good book, if not much too fast a read (it only took me two and a half hours to finish), but none of this is really the point.

The point is: I miss reading. I blogged a little about this over at URFCKD, but I kind of want to mention it here as well. To drive it home, maybe.

I used to be a voracious reader. It was my thing. Other people have music, and I like music (although, not as much lately), but music was never really my thing. And yeah, I watch a lot of movies, but I never considered myself a film buff; nor did I ever strive to establish myself as a film buff. I doodle, but I'm not an artist. I write (occasionally), but I'm not a writer.

I'm a reader.

I'm the kind of person who will--schedule allowing it--stay awake for three days, just to finish a novel in one sitting.

I'm the kind of person who, when imagining her dream house, has an entire floor devoted to books. My dream house has an actual library. With a card catalogue.

I'm the kind of person who falls in love with a person based on the caliber of his bookshelf. Always have been. I usually don't realize that I'm serious about a person until I start imagining our collections combined... his books, my books, the shelving it would require for such a union, which novels we'd have multiple copies of, etc. Seriously: some women imagine what her kids would look like were she to marry so-and-so; I wonder about what our library would look like.

Or, at least, I used to be that kind of person. Somewhere along the line, I stopped. Reading stopped being my thing. Maybe it had to do with school, and being forced to listen to absolute morons discuss novels I loved. Or maybe it was the fact that I had to get a job, and finding the time to scout out books I wanted to read seemed impossible. Not to mention finding the time to actually read the book once I'd decided on it. Maybe it's the fact that reading is a solitary activity; you can watch a movie and listen to music in a group, with people, but reading is really an alone-time activity. And maybe I'm afraid of alone-time... Maybe I'm now the kind of person who subconsiously needs to be with people all the time, and dreads having to spend any quantitive amount of time by herself...

Whatever the reason, movies and Nintendo and drinking are my things now (or, at least, have been for the past year.) They're just so much easier, so much less of an investment. They're cheaper (and I don't mean "cheaper" as a financial statement.)

And I feel cheaper for choosing them.

So, my New Year's resolution--and don't even get me started on how I used to be the kind of person who didn't make New Year's resolutions--will be to finish at least one book a week (unless I decide to finally finish Ulysses or something equally epic, in which case I will allow myself longer.) I'm not going to resolve to review the books once I've read them, because I won't, and I'm not going to set myself up for that failure. But I am going to resolve to start reading again. I'm going to try and be that girl who isn't afraid of spending time alone.

I used to be that girl. I can be her again.

Right?

(On a totally unrelated note, Goodwill had the most amazing selection of self-help books from the 70s and 80s yesterday. Any--or all--of them would have enhanced my collection greatly, and I was thisclose to buying them, but then... I remembered I have no place to put them, and they'd just be more crap I have to haul around until I do. Le sigh. And so, just like that, I've let a trove of precious gems slip through my fingers.)

On Not Sleeping.

I can't. Sleep, that is. So here're some illustrations. I found them on the interwebs. They're by Marc Johns. I like his work.

On Smoking.

Lately, I've been fixated on vintage cigarette ads. I like to pretend that it's still 1936, and imagine living in a world where, to make Christmas shopping easier, cartons of Camels still came pre-wrapped in December. I like the idea of a world where a carton of Camels is an acceptable Christmas present. I like thinking that menthol flavored cigarettes are an acceptable alternative to cough medicine when you're sick. I think living in a society that *openly* admits cigarettes are used to curb appetites would be charming. According to the ads, smoking is relaxing, refreshing, and 'soothes irritated throats;' it makes people fall in love with you; smoking is patriotic; smoking is bad-ass. And I want my world to be like that. And I think I could have--quite effortlessly, mind you--convinced myself that I was living a bubble wherein the truths of 1936 were still true, were it not for the following television commercial:

(Please disregard the speech bubbles that were added by the person who posted this on YouTube)

To understand this commercial's devastating effect on my fantasy, let me describe my first cigarette of the morning.

My first cigarette is consumed in one of two ways. Option A occurs at approximately 5:45 am, and involves me hurriedly trying to find either one or both components of my work uniform. Bleary-eyed, sleep deprived and tussled, I usually light up right before I brush my teeth. Drags of said cigarette are taken in intervals, usually right after I spit. I finish my cigarette while cursing the pre-dawn weather and either walking, frenzied, to the car, or walking, even more frenzied (and usually late), over the bridge to work.

Option B is the first cigarette of the day on the days I don't work. Nine times out of time, this involves me waking up between 10 and noon, riffling through the pile of shit next to my bed (which, by the way, is actually a mound of blankets and pillows on the floor), and lighting up while praying that the neighbors' internet hasn't been passworded yet. I smoke while checking Facebook, finish, and fall back asleep.

Either way, I'm usually semi-comatose for the first cigarette of the day.

It is never five minutes to eight when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

There is never coffee and breakfast made and ready when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

The kitchen is never clean when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

I don't even have a kitchen in which to consume the first cigarette of the day.

I am never cheerful and smiling when I consume the first cigarette of the day.

These discrepancies have forced me to acknowledge that I am not the people in these ads. I am not one of those people who feels peppy after smoking. I am not a doctor, prescribing Chesterfields, nor will any doctor I ever see prescribe me Chesterfields. Thus, I'm forced to recognize that all of the other beautiful 'truths' that the campaigns are pushing do not apply to me either.

I think I was born in the wrong decade. I just want life to be simple.

When did it get so complicated?

On Happiness.

On Times A-Changin'.

For a brief while, L. and I were entertaining the idea of packing up and shipping out to Kodiak, Alaska, to work in a fish processing plant. The reasoning behind this was, for me at least, three-fold: firstly, it was a fast way to make money; secondly, I'd become aware of the fact that my time in Missoula is over, and it's time for me to get out; and lastly, it seemed like a quick way to make the break from Missoula.

Kodiak isn't going to happen, owing mostly to the fact that the company that hired us doesn't exist. As in, the business association of Kodiak has never heard of them. Nor has the internet.

However, fate has seen fit to forcibly extricate me from my life of comfortable misery in Missoula.

At approximately 3pm today, our property manager--accompanied by the Sheriff--let himself into our house and informed me that we had to be out. As in, right that second. While I threw my work clothes and my computer into a backpack, they changed the locks. We have to make an appointment to get the rest of our stuff.

Panicked, I called my mom. And, just like that, a radical change was set into motion. It appears that by early next week, I will be living in Billings. I have an apartment. I have a car. I have two interviews with employers I've spoken with over the phone. I have a place to stay until then, and I've passed the point of caring.

Life is a funny, funny thing. It's not always fun, but it is funny. I'm beyong the point of panic and all I can do now is laugh; I'm laughing because, when I failed to take the initiative to get myself out of the doldrums, fate (or maybe just coincidence) stepped in and helped me out.

Yep. Life is funny.

It's Snowing And,

I'm supposed to be getting ready right now. I'm on my way to another going away party, and it should be fun, and I've already said that I would go, but...

Here's the thing:

I don't want to go to another going away party.

I fucking hate going away parties.

Fuck.