And so, darling moppets, it has commenced. The first worn books have been carefully plucked from their perches and placed delicately in their worn suitcases, ready for departure to a new home in Bucktown next door to Danny's Tavern which by the way is one cool joint despite its inclination towards attracting the snootiest of snoots hippy-hipster moppets.
And so. A good chunk of all the words we live with are now tucked into darkness, closed for the ensuing month until the day comes when we pick them up, tote them out of our cozy abode and into our new soon-to-be cozy abode. We can feel their harumphness at us, but what can we do? We mean, really, what of what? At least we gave them the suitcases instead of the smelly brown boxes waiting to abduct the rest of our belongings. Double harumph.
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Moving. It gets harder as we acquire more stuff. We want to be like Ms. Portman in Closer* when she says in a jaw-jutting-out sorta way, 'Who needs stuff? What is stuff? I'll get new stuff.' Harumph to that.
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*Well, okay, now. We don't reeeally want to be like Natalie in Closer as far as that whole Stripper/we want approval by simultaneously clinging to older men while keeping them at arm's length and giving them faux names instead of our birth coinage.
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