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Return of the Depressed

Okay, I’m not really depressed so much as crushed under the weight of the belongings I’ve got to get sorted out and into boxes in the next 24 hours. I’d hoped that, returning from NOLA to SoCal, the long division of my stuff would end. My last move, a year ago, was a sorting into three piles: this stuff goes into storage in Friend A’s extra room; this stuff goes into Friend B’s apartment, where he’ll make use of it for the year; this stuff goes to New Orleans, where I’ll need it. Complex enough, and one would think that this return would be a coalescence, a gathering together of this dispersed flotsam into one centralized pile of flotsam. Particularly given that I am moving into the apartment that Friend B just vacated, and thus 1/3 of my stuff is already there.

Except that the building that said apartment is in is not inhabitable, as it’s in the midst of a construction zone. So I’m going to be housesitting for Friend A for the month of August. So I’ll have access to the A stuff, but no access to the B stuff.

The problem is the NOLA stuff, which is being moved directly into the B apartment, where I will then lose access to it for a few weeks. So I’m having to sort the NOLA stuff into the absolutely crucial, which comes with me in the car (cats; cat supplies; a subset of clothing; other personal items); the crucial, but not for the next week, which will be shipped to the A apartment (computer, printer, a few books); and the rest, which will disappear into the moving truck and apartment B.

Needless to say, the calculus of this move has absorbed all of my available brain space, and is looking to rent out more. So I’m off to pack, and may be out of touch for a bit. I’ll leave you with one brief thought:

Perdition? Where the hell is that?


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