August 1, 2007
Let me preface this post by stating I feel like an old boot fished out of the bottom of a medical waste dumpster. I have (currently) at my disposal (approximately) the mental faculties that such a boot might possess, and my wasted visage is akin to leather wrought from the skin of albino sea horses.
I moved yesterday; though in retrospect It seemed more the world I had known receded away from me, leaving bare a cracked dystopian shale of residential indiscretion. That’s a tad strong. The move, however, was last minute and ill fortuned. You have to  understand that my new apartment wasn’t fully secured until the 31st at noon, four hours before I had to move out my previous apartment. Half of my packing was down the mouth of our second floor garbage chute; half of our moving involved walking large objects down the street to the new place, assaulted by the hoots and catcalls of passing motorists.
Items of note found while packing
- 9 lost house keys. Four of which were lost in the past six weeks. I spend a great deal of time sleeping in parks and breaking into my own property.
- 40lbs ball of cat hair which I mistook for my 40lbs cat. I had it muzzled and placed in the travel sack before the actual feliglobian appeared and secured a ticket to the new place.
- One dingy gray pair of ladies underwear jammed in the back of the freezer behind the fish sticks. Neither Rob, nor I, nor Esmeralda could account for their presence. I placed them back into cold nether regieons, that the next tenants might divine their origin.
- A framed productivity mastery certificate. The irony and banality of this item cannot be properly conveyed in the limited space available.
Upon arriving at my new apartment I discovered four flights of stairs of varying length, hallways two inches wider than my shoulders, and ceilings about three feet high…stained with the tears of past movers in.
The first casualty was my spine. The next causality was my lazy boy couch…which was about four feet too long (metal girded and fused together) to fit through the door. I had a few tense of moments of inner conflict, then practiced the Buddhist art of releasing; allowing the couch to move onto it’s new life as a resident of the garbage pile. I then practiced the Daoist art of kick fucking traitorous furniture bent on humiliating me. This whole drama was played out in 117 degree heat, with a humidex high enough to swim through.
Some other bad stuff probably happened, but I can only remember dull ache, the smell of fresh Verathane floor coating, and the sound of my trapezieus muscles shearing off the bone.
I then fled to neutral ground when an old friend allowed me to shower and tend my wounds. Sleep was troubled at best. I am now so tired and dislocated I’m convinced it’s Monday and I live in series of secret tunnels behind Pottery barn. I don’t even know what I just wrote…I can’t remember, and I lost the ability to read several hours ago. I think it was kind of bland and may have involved threats of some sort. If you see me in the street send me on my way with a sandwich and warm blanket.
I don’t recall my name.
 You don’t actually have to. A honest attempt would certainly facilitate your immersion into this piece, though.
 I violated the Spirit of the second floor garbage chute to such a wild degree the vengeful shades of several Cherokee warriors are now following me around. The general idea is only small bags of well tied kitchen garbage can be deployed into it’s innards. By the end of the day I throwing down handfuls of soiled pillows, toilet seat covers, and old keyboards (weighted down with stones stolen from the rock garden outside to keep the chute from jamming).