Someone fairly intelligent once noted, “packing sucks, unpacking isn’t so bad,” and I’d have to agree. I’m just starting to go through all my shit, deciding what to keep, what to discard, and what to burn in effigy. Records and magazines are proving to be major stumbling blocks (as are the stubling blocks I keep stumbling over), but I’m assuming that gee to the oh-deezy will intervene with one of his so-called “acts” and save the day.
A few things I’ve noticed about myself in this process:
1. Need to dust more.
2. After four years dealing with a half-ass, corner-cutting landlord, I have a strong desire to leave unflushed number twos in both of the toilets when I leave.
3. I have too much stuff.
4. Nobody will take my gaming chair. The thing costs $1800 (I didn’t buy it, but it does), and I literally can’t give it away.
5. I was about to rent Miguel’s old room to a 21 year-old Swiss soon-to-be supermodel, but she got sick and is going back to Switzerland. Not even kidding.
6. Bulgogi fucks me up. Is there MSG in that action?
Went to Apple today, which was relatively uneventful, aside from something that happened on the drive down to Cupertino (which took an hour and an effing half, by the way). So I’m driving along, just leaving the city, and I realize I need to get over a couple of lanes to get on the 101 South. We’re in stop-and-go traffic, and I signal to get over, with plenty of space between myself and the car behind me. As I’m changing lanes, the woman behind me, driving a gold Pontiac and chatting her balls off into her cellphone–for a reason beyond my comprehension–speeds up and tries to prevent me from getting in, nearly smacking into me in the process (keep in mind that traffic barely moving at this point.) So I hand signal to her, “Yo, what the fuck, beyotch?” And in a return hand signal she’s all, “I’m an evil cunt! Fuck you!”
Summary up until this point: this lady came within inches of hitting me, it pissed me off.
So a few minutes later, we finally start moving again. It’s raining fairly hard at this point; a few more minutes pass, and I’ve lost track of the Pontiac that had been the focus of my scorn. As I’m driving along I see a car just ahead in the lane next to me slam violently into the car in front of it, totaling half of each vehicle in the process. And as I’m driving by, I notice that the car that got rear-ended was, in fact, the same damn gold Pontiac. And in what felt like slow motion, I drove right past the driver’s window — through which I could see the Evil Lady of Death sitting there, cackling away. Freaking karma chameleons and shit, dog.
Point of the story? I want this.