I mean...that's all I even have to say about that.
It BLOWS, y'all. I am having to pack up all of my things in boxes (as that is, you know, sort of the cornerstone of the moving process), and I have filled FIVE trashcans (seriously. Yes.) with crap from my office, and...and...ugh. It's driving me up a wall.
But, you know. Worth it. Better job, bigger firm, better everything, working with my diddy. Worth it even, to open up your desk and discover the seventy thousand packets of SALT, SALT EVERYWHERE, that have apparently taken residence and begun to breed.
Y'all. Why do I have so much salt? Am I scaring away evil spirits? Am I trying to attract deer? Kill slugs? I do not know.
But, um. Really, the reason why I am writing? A warning. A warning for you, gentle reader. Let's do some imagination exercises. Close your eyes...and then open them, you know, to read, but then close them again real quick-like, and maybe it will work.
I am playing soothing music for you now. Enya-like. Relaaaaaaax.
Let's imagine, say, you quit your job, and then you have an impromptu party at your house to celebrate said quitting. La la la. And then, maybe, I don't know, let me think...you do some drinking to celebrate this. And MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, you have the music going, and a really good song comes on.
Do you feel this? Are you with me?
Well. You may feel the need to throw your hands in the air! And wave 'em like you just don't care! That may happen, don't you think?
And you WON'T care. You won't! Unless...unless there is a ceiling fan.
Then: You care. Intensely, deeply, painfully. YOU FUCKING CARE, right then, at that moment, and you will scream BLOODY FUCKING MURDER, because OW, I mean...OW, and then you will spend the next day PACKING YOUR OFFICE with a curled-up ouchy hand that does not have working fingers, and cursing whomever it was who TOLD you to throw your hands in the air, and wave 'em like you just don't care, because LIAR.
Now. This is just a hypothetical situation. None of us knows anyone who would maybe have a party, drink a little too much, and stick her fool hand in a ceiling fan. Ha ha! Can you imagine?
Moron! Let's have a good laugh at her theoretical expense!
So, now that THAT'S finished, I'm going back to sitting. And thinking about packing. And, uh...icing my hypothetical hand.