Moving is okay
I've moved a total of three times. Come next summer it'll be four. The first move was the biggest moving from the family home in the 'burbs of Trawnno out to the farer east shithole known as Ajax. Bleah. The only redeeming features were being a stone throw from Lake Ontario along with a good view. Fortunately my time out there was limited to four to five months. I got a taste of the train and subway commute from there to western Toronto and vowed never to do that again after I moved out. For that big move we got a big dumpster put on our driveway and my sister and I were tasked with chucking out all the useless shit my parents had acquired over the years. Lots and lots and lots of tacky '60s and '70s shit pulled up from the depths of the basement crawlspace. We filled that sucker up good! eBay wasn't around back then and a garage sale was out because I hate people, especially garage sale people. "Fuck you! No, it's $10. Read the tag! No I won't haggle. It's a coffee maker that's never been used. Fucking cheapskate!"
With my final move, for hopefully a long time, to my very own brand spanking new downtown condo, I've been slowly over the past year going through all the crap I have in my tiny apartment. Stuff being sold, stuff being chucked, papers read and either kept or shredded and some stuff being boxed up well ahead of time. I hate packing things at the last minute. You lose any organization and can't find stuff for weeks on end after a move.
I've helped move my sister twice, my dad twice, my mom twice, one friend three times and I expect a fourth move in the next few years, other friends a total of five times. Come the middle to end of June I'll be helping another friend move.
As long as there is good beer and I get fed a meal or two, I don't mind.
"Find out who your real friends are, move something!"
