The wretched life

First off... It's 10:14 in the morning on a day when I'm not working, and I've already been up for three hours.

Secondly, there are two dudes here, putting all my stuff in boxes. All of it. Little scooter toys, stereo stuff, CDs that were just sitting out. Shit. I forgot to get the DVDs out of the DVD player. Oh well. It's packed now.

Soon, all of our belongings, save for a roomful of stuff that we've somehow convinced ourselves will fit in our cars and various U-Haul equipment, will be boxed up, waiting for someone to load it in to a truck tomorrow, hopefully to be seen again in a couple of weeks.

Holy. Shit.

We're up to about twenty boxes in the room I'm sitting in alone. There are probably another 20 scattered throughout the house. The place is about halfway packed, not including the kitchen. Yikes.

Susie and I had a rousing game of "What's in that box?" earlier. You play it by reading what the guy wrote on the side and trying to figure out if that corresponds to something you intended to tell him not to pack. Anyone can play, but it's best if you have years of experience owning our stuff.

This is some crazy shit, dudes.

Sampling of writing on the boxes I'm currently surrounded by:

"Records"
"Scooters"
"Scooter Toys"
"Records"
"Toys"
"Records"
"Record Player"
"Pet Supplies"
"BMW Carbs"

Don't ask me how they figured that last one out.

And no, I won't grow up.