Moving Home

Moving is a complete bitch. Love my new place, but Jesus HELMUT Christ it's a monumental pain in the ass to move. I swear I didn't have this much crap a year ago; there's absolutely no way, because I know i needed half of this stuff at some point and couldn't find any of it at the time. I'm looking at a 470sqft apartment that is at this moment all boxes and bags, and the cats are paralyzed with fear, cowering underneath my bed. But at least, finally, my cable modem and all that is set up again, so i'm no longer breathing through a straw when it comes to bandwidth.

This place is small-ish, but awesome. The building is all fantasy, gunfights are apparently much rarer than in my old neighborhood and the rats, if any, have their own apartments. I've got a balcony with a pretty good view of the cathedral and half of Rock Creek Park -- but most importantly, I've got a direct, 9th floor line of sight to Mr. P's: the kind of gay bar that right-wingers point to when they look for reasons to launch homosexuals into the sun for offenses against God, to say nothing of offenses against the leather industry.

Aiight. I've gotta finish unloading this metric ton of crap into shelves and drawers. Happy New Year and all that.