Transition.

With the completion of the divorce extravaganza in Boston recently, I came home feeling like kicking everythings ass. Tied up some work stuff, cleared the decks, made some lists. Eff everything. All felt very productive. The largest of those decisions came from the following self-examination... why wasn't I unpacked (it's been since March)?, why is there still no couch?

I've been procrastinating. Never something that would be listed under my normal traits before this year. And I don't mind saying I was pissed when I realized it. Really pissed. So I'm leaving the apartment. There's the core of the missing couch, the lack of curtains, the absence of dinner parties.

This apartment has always felt temporary to me. I miss parts of my old life still. Granite countertops, matching fucking bathroom tiles, and straight walls. This apartment feels like college, and it feels like I failed somehow and returned to NYC with my tail between my legs. Eff that.

So now the boxes that were sort of unpacked are being repacked. I ignore the screaming children in the schoolyard below and no longer want to plow grenades into the yard while brushing my teeth.

The search begins, planning ensues. There are lists.