I suppose that at some point I should start organizing my belongings. It's difficult to move if you don't put things in boxes first. But man oh man, that is not going to be fun. I'm looking forward to the unpacking and the settling in and deciding where things will go and all of that, but not the preparations. Not at all.
I am, however, curious to see what becomes of my current bedroom, still decorated in the pale-purple-and-mint-green motif that I chose at 14 years old. Erica's pink-and-dark-green room is now grey with red accent. And my mom's office. My room's destiny is as yet unknown.
I have rediscovered the fact that when I am alone in the house, I talk to myself. A lot. Almost constantly. It's been so long since I've had the place to myself for any length of time that I haven't really thought about it. But man, last night. Last night I was narrating my every thought. "Maybe I'll have macaroni and cheese for dinner. Yeah, that would be good. That would be very good. And easy. And I can have the leftovers for lunch tomorrow. What should I wear to work tomorrow? I hope I have enough milk. Is it time to feed the fish yet? Nope, still a few minutes. I'll spritz the bonsai. Spritz spritz! Yeah, so good. Why am I still talking? Lord. I'll turn on the TV. Remote, remote, remote, remote. Loookin' for the remote." And so on. If I had a cat, I could at least pretend to be talking to it, but it's hard to convince yourself that you're talking to the fish if you're not in the same room as their tank. And fish just don't follow you around. Oh well, at least it's only when I'm alone. I'm not driving anyone else bonkers, aside from the guys with the headphones in the unmarked van outside. And they don't count.