August 10, 2003 - 10:24 p.m.

Three trips back and forth from my current residence to the future one has taught me two things. First, it is quite a long haul. An hour and a half doesn't seem all that long until you calculate my total driving time this weekend. At least nine hours of commuting, and countless hours around town. Secondly, I am the only person in the world who knows how to drive.

I am not an overly nervous driver, but I am cautious. I like to avoid things such as pedestrians, wildlife, street signs, ditches, and death when I climb behind the wheel. Unlike the driver of the pickup truck behind me this evening. I could be mistaken, but it seemed to me the driver was purposely aiming for things. Out of my rear view, I saw a man yank the leash of his dog very abruptly to avoid the pickup that had two wheels on the sidewalk. The driver was tailgating like crazy, and only honked his horn and pretended to attempt to pass me on the right side if I tapped my brakes. I would have called the police, but I make it a point to never fuck around with people who have Confederate flags attached to their antennas. After this driver turned off the state route (almost taking out the street sign), I got stuck behind the Ford Anal Probe from Quebec. The Anal Probe apparently thinks that it is a good idea to dramatically slow down, dangerously halting traffic, everytime there was an oncoming car. As if every oncoming person would jump into the opposite lane without notice and the Anal Probe would have to drive onto the shoulder to avoid it.

Maybe I am a bit moody and taking this far too seriously. I probably just need a nap. Or a laxative. Blame it on irregularity.

The amazing thing about packing and moving is that I always intend on doing it the "right way". You know, with organization n'stuff. I dream about a box of breakables tenderly wrapped in newspaper, tucked lovingly into a box, and marking the box "fragile". I covet the patience of those that actually label a box with the desired room and it's contents. About an hour into packing, I have already wadded the newspaper with my chewing gum and am randomly pulling priceless memoirs of off shelves, wrapping them in off-season clothing, and using all my weight to shove them into a box. Although I can be pretty good about marking where a box is to be, I rarely write what is in it. I asked poor Liz to do a favor for me and locate the box with my birth certificate in it (new employer needed a photocopy). It took her hours. She said that she would've assumed it would be in the "Important Papers" box. Unfortunately, I forgot to tell her the "Important Papers" was a recyled box from my last move, and if she was to flip it over, she would see that the other side was marked "Fragile" and "Do Not Flip" and contained several Noah's Ark snow globes, a porcelain candle shaped like an apple, my high school diploma, a remote control for a TV set I no longer own, and a bottle of furniture polish. Liz eventually found my birth certificate in the "Christmas Decorations" box. Dan was helping me unpack a few hours ago, and was upset that I had marked several boxes "Stuff". With the way I pack, it is a very hard task indeed to specifically mark what I have crammed in. Fortunately, he was cheered up a great deal when he came across my "Stuff I Will Never Look At Again But Cannot Seem To Make Myself Throw Away" box containing stuffed animals, a sea shell from Florida, my cap and gown, a program from a play I never went to see, a written notice from a college noise violation, and many cassette tapes.

I have so little stuff in here now. It looks lonely. All that is left is furniture, toiletries, clothing, and the computer. Thank God for the little amusement I have with the computer, but will get very old soon as computer is dial-up modem and has no speakers. That's no fun. I was stupid and packed all the books. I borrowed RuPaul's autobiography from Dan but I left it at the new house. I am such a jackass.

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