box

I'm slowly getting going on the whole packing process. It, of course, sucks big donkey nuts. I have so much stuff, man.
As I was loading some books into this box, I took a look at it. At least fifteen layers of tape. Sides held together with a band of tape around the outside. "P's clothes," "M's food," "lamps," and "kitchen" all scratched out on the outside for "M's books + camera."

This is the story of my life.

I lived in the same apartment for three years with a rotating cast of great roommates. Then, some stuff happened in my life and I decided it was time to live alone, so I moved accross the street for my last year of university. I graduated in 2004. I moved July 1st to Villeray to save money. That roommate and I did not work out. So, October 1st, I moved to the Plateau. Living in a gorgeous 1 1/2 with a view of the Olympic stadium and a broken toilet turned out to be less perfect than expected when I found out the entire building was full of alcoholics on social assistance. TVs blaring at 4am, constant smell of stanky booze in the halls, loud crashes in the middle of the night. I think what did it for me was when I came home at 1:30am the night before a fairly important interview to discover that the woman downstairs had passed out, drunk, with an overflowing toilet which leaked through the floor and ceiling and was dripping all over the enterance hall. I called the cops to make sure she wasn't dead.
So, February 1st, 2005, I moved in with soon-to-be ex-roomie. July 1st rolled around, and she asked me to move with her to this apartment. It's bigger and cheaper, and as I wasn't on the lease at the old place, I didn't have much recourse. So I moved. Now, April 1st, I'm moving again. This is going to be my 7th apartment since 2003, my 6th since July 1st 2004.

I am so sick of moving. But, really, at this point, it's just funny.