I want to promise you that this entry will be worth your time. I’d like to pave the way from my intro paragraph to the real start of the entry with nuggets of gold (or crispy, golden chicken nuggets if you’re Hansel and Gretel-ly inclined), but honestly I misspelled pave the way as “pathe” 30 seconds ago. Clearly shouldn’t be writing cheques my addled mind couldn’t accurately fill out. For the purposes of this entry, consider me mentally bankrupt. Anything amazing that we’d love to see will fail to appear and that’s okay. Not every entry has to be gilded. Frankly, very few of them are. Plus, if the way paved to my entry is littered with foodstuffs, does that make it some kind of witchy business? Obviously not, because I’m having trouble spelling right now.
Not too tired to pun though, by the looks of it.
Why am I tired? Because I haven’t slept enough. Why haven’t I slept enough? Because tomorrow is moving day. My girlfriend is moving all her stuff into my place, henceforth known as “our place” (we’ve kind of adopted the moniker preemptively). To prep for moving day, my girlfriend and I have been working through all of her stuff (though she’s been doing the bulk while I’ve been at work. We’re planning things we should’ve planned weeks ago and her late shifts mean that often we don’t get to start together until close to midnight. Accordingly, bedtime has shifted past 1am most days. Waking up for work then doing it all over again has become the norm. Now just in case I’m actually eliciting sympathy here, this has only been the past few days. It’s not like this has been a sustained effort for the past week. Still, it’s a draining process to go through and this is just one of us moving. I can’t imagine how much of a nightmare it’d be for us both to be packing up.
It’s overwhelming seeing just how much stuff she has (I mean, most people have a ton of stuff) and trying to form a picture in my head of how everything will come together is taxing my brain-meats. How much kitchen stuff do we need? Is half of what we bring gonna end up on the footpath outside our place? Will we have enough linen to dress an entire toga party? How much space does (the space that’s currently known as) my place actually have? Will we transport everything only to find our aesthetics clashing wildly? Why do any of us have so much stuff? Was I destined to live in a capsule hotel instead?
Then there are all those niggling doubts playing through my head. I’ve never cohabited. What happens if I can’t handle it? If I snap, go postal, climb a lamp post and shout Eldritch epithets at passing cars? What if I don’t like living with a cat? If I find the lack of solitary space and affront to my equilibrium? If my girlfriend and I become feral and walk around on all fours snarling over errant flecks of floor meat we failed to clean? My mind darts to the elephant in the room: What happens if our relationship can’t survive our close quarter company?
The answer to all of the above questions, of course, is that we’ll deal with it like we’ve dealt with every issue that’s arisen thus far: We’ll talk. We’ll raise problems while owning our feelings. We’ll listen and consider each other’s point of view, because we’re both too smart to shack up with someone whose views we don’t respect. We’ll both grow the fuck up as much as we need to and deal with things like our parents did when they were (likely a few years younger than) our ages. We’ll also remember that we love each other, to have fun, to not lose sight of the reasons we grew so close, the reasons why this move is even happening at all.
I’m tired. I may be delirious, but behind it all I’ve got this sneaking suspicion that things will work out. I guess that’s the crispy, golden chicken nugget ahead of us.
In any case, I’m certain that this entry was worth my time, because I know what we should have for dinner now.