Currently Chasing: A Blast From the Past: Separation

*Blog originally written in March 2007 before moving to Norfolk, Va.*

I've always had a problem with separation. Separating laundry. Separating from old lovers. Separating from dear friends. But going from living in a house with roommates, to living on your own, is by far the hardest act of separation you will ever encounter. Trying to separate your shit, from their shit is fucking ridiculous.

I've got a lot of shit. I would not consider myself a pack rat, but I'm pretty sure I'm a pack hamster or something.

Even the mere thought of figuring out what belongs to me in the house, and then moving it, is enough to make me want to go dye my hair. (That's what I do when there is too much to do. I seem to not want to do anything but my doo.)

And besides that, most of my furniture is just a mixture of shit that had at some point belonged to someone else anyway…so can it even really be considered mine? The couch that I got from Marcia. Goodbye. The Entertainment center that I got from Marcia, and that p.s. weighs a fuck ton (official measurement.) Goodbye. The bed frame I bought from the married couple at work. Adios. The desk I got from a girl who gave it to me in return for taking care of her cat, Morris, whom I subsequently let get out of the house and was unable to recover. I was kind of hoping the cat didn't mean anything to her, but those hopes were dashed when I called to let her know about the accidental tragedy and I got her machine with this message: You have reached Kimberly and Morris, (meow.) We are unable to come to the phone right now.

She may as well have said: Hello, this is Kimberly and if you are calling to tell me you lost my cat, then don't bother. By the time you finish leaving the message I will have already thrown myself in front of a train.

And speaking of moving.(See that transition)Did I mention I hate it? Even right this minute I am looking at this desk. (Yes, the same desk. I got it over Morris's dead body...quite literally I guess) and I see a million things. What is mine? Is that blanket over there mine? What about the scarves? Don't even ask me about the shoes, I have no fucking clue who bought what. What about the perfume factory in the bathroom. Mine? My roommates? Was it a company purchase? Can I claim it on my taxes if I sprayed it on only for work?

I just want to start over. All new shit. My own shit. That I bought out of a store and not out of someone's garage. I mean, come on, I'm an adult now right? I should buy a house and buy furniture to fit the house, instead of shoving a fuck ton of furniture into a tiny room.

This computer is mine. I'll take it with me. And my radio can come too. And maybe the framed photo of me and Christian Slater. And then underwear and I'm good.

Hopefully finding mine amidst the others won't prove too difficult.

*Update - I finally did buy a house. But instead of buying my own shit, out of a store, I went to craig's list and found a girl who was moving to another country and was literally selling every single thing in her house, including wall hangings and decorations. I took a uhaul to her place and moved her entire life into my house. I practically stole this woman's identity. I still have a picture of her husband packed away in a box in my closet. True story. *