This Is the Last Time I Move!!

I say this every time that I move, but I mean it more this time: "This is the last time that I am ever moving!"

First of all, I think that my books must enjoy very active sex-lives, since they are obviously reproducing at an alarming rate. I keep finding titles that I had no idea existed, much less belonged in my library. Where did all these volumes come from? I've found books on subjects ranging from shipping history, to men's psychology (an attempt on my part to save a doomed relationship some time ago), to Victorian etiquette, to nutrition. There are British murder mysteries from the thirties, Mark Twain first editions, Bible commentaries, a bookcase-worth of autobiographies from classic film stars, and several poetry anthologies. If I ever want a new deck on the townhouse, I could build it out of my books!

My clothes hangers have the opposite problem of the books - apparently there is a Clothes Hanger Mafia in the closet that keeps killing off weaklings, putting them in cement bathing suits, and dropping them into Lake Michigan while I sleep at night. I think the Clothes Hanger Mafia might also be responsible for the recent CD case shortage. And don't get me started on the washer's voracious appetite for half of each pair of socks! Doesn't that beast ever get full?

The moving boxes are rapidly filling, and slowly taking over my bedroom (technically the guest room) and my parents' storeroom. I guess you never really know how much stuff you have until you try to shove it all into boxes and move it several hundred miles away. I think the kitchen alone has about fifteen boxes now! Maybe I should just let the stuff have the townhouse, and find a small apartment for me. I can drive out and visit my belongings on weekends, and occasionally let some of it come to my place for a sleepover.