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moving out
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stellar_dust: Plz sell *all* your stuff tomorrow. kthnx. You can manage a couple weeks with a sleeping bag and hot pot and peanut butter in a tube, right? 'Cause if you don't, you'll need the practice anyway, 'cause you and me are hitchhiking home from North Dakota to make space in the car. (Actually that's a bloody good idea. We should talk Mom into letting us do that anyway. Nothing but two sisters, two laptops, and the heartland.)
So, yep. I'm all moved out now. There is no spare room in this car; I even had to take my shoes off and stow them elsewhere to make room for my feet. And this is the *second load*. From one dorm room with about as much square footage as my shed.
By way of clever stragems* I managed to avoid moving out of my third-floor walk-up in the pouring rain this morning. I'm still exhausted. How did someone who has literally never worked a day in her life accumulate so much *stuff*? Of course, it's partly that I've never worked a day in my life and I'm incredibly out of shape. Once I've started, I can keep going, as long as I'm motivated and I stay hydrated, although my pace is rather like that of Achilles' tortoise. (And if I don't drink every fifteen minutes, I get progressively more naseous until I very neatly and quietly barf. This usually solves my problem, as it inspires bystanders to offer me water, but I'd be screwed if I was actually being deprived.) I have no muscle whatsoever, and what fat I have is pressed into the service of my womanly curves. One of the fics I had Microsoft Sam read to me last night was Jane St. Clair's Three Days Down, which has Methos musing about the centuries he spent able to see every bone in his wrists outlined.monkeycrackmary's sparkly Bruce/Jay story has the same image, the sad French woman talking about wrists like sparrow bones. My wrists are like that. I can wrap my thumb and third finger around my wrist and still have an inch of finger to spare. I kind of like the image.
And now I sound like I have an eating disorder or something, what with the barfing and seeing my bones. Which I don't. But I have been obsessing about food lately. When you reach the last week of the semester with an extra $400 of food money left, and that's *with* about three boxes of groceries to haul home and another box to throw out, you think a lot about food and how much you eat. I even went and bought a couple Powers Bars just in case I ever need to write one into an Atlantis fic. <_< (This was written on the ride home yesterday, but I only just now convinced the wireless router it was working again. Now, to unload the huge pile of Stuff sitting in the living room.)
stellar_dust: Plz sell *all* your stuff tomorrow. kthnx. You can manage a couple weeks with a sleeping bag and hot pot and peanut butter in a tube, right? 'Cause if you don't, you'll need the practice anyway, 'cause you and me are hitchhiking home from North Dakota to make space in the car. (Actually that's a bloody good idea. We should talk Mom into letting us do that anyway. Nothing but two sisters, two laptops, and the heartland.)So, yep. I'm all moved out now. There is no spare room in this car; I even had to take my shoes off and stow them elsewhere to make room for my feet. And this is the *second load*. From one dorm room with about as much square footage as my shed.
By way of clever stragems* I managed to avoid moving out of my third-floor walk-up in the pouring rain this morning. I'm still exhausted. How did someone who has literally never worked a day in her life accumulate so much *stuff*? Of course, it's partly that I've never worked a day in my life and I'm incredibly out of shape. Once I've started, I can keep going, as long as I'm motivated and I stay hydrated, although my pace is rather like that of Achilles' tortoise. (And if I don't drink every fifteen minutes, I get progressively more naseous until I very neatly and quietly barf. This usually solves my problem, as it inspires bystanders to offer me water, but I'd be screwed if I was actually being deprived.) I have no muscle whatsoever, and what fat I have is pressed into the service of my womanly curves. One of the fics I had Microsoft Sam read to me last night was Jane St. Clair's Three Days Down, which has Methos musing about the centuries he spent able to see every bone in his wrists outlined.
monkeycrackmary's sparkly Bruce/Jay story has the same image, the sad French woman talking about wrists like sparrow bones. My wrists are like that. I can wrap my thumb and third finger around my wrist and still have an inch of finger to spare. I kind of like the image.And now I sound like I have an eating disorder or something, what with the barfing and seeing my bones. Which I don't. But I have been obsessing about food lately. When you reach the last week of the semester with an extra $400 of food money left, and that's *with* about three boxes of groceries to haul home and another box to throw out, you think a lot about food and how much you eat. I even went and bought a couple Powers Bars just in case I ever need to write one into an Atlantis fic. <_< (This was written on the ride home yesterday, but I only just now convinced the wireless router it was working again. Now, to unload the huge pile of Stuff sitting in the living room.)
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I bet it'll fit. We'll *make* it fit. We'll have two cars plus the top thing, so that'll be good, right? Right.
When are you guys coming, btw? I got no plans.
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