I have lately been very fearful, about moving to New York primarily but also about other things. One reason I avoided attending college is that, straight up, the paperwork intimidated me. I loathe paperwork to begin with--if I'd realized that's what I'd primarily be doing at the last real job I held, I might never have said yes. (Oh who am I kidding? Of course I'd have said yes. Anything to get out of what the previous job has since turned into--like clockwork it's turned, almost exactly in the ways I predicted, a state I get no joy from seeing it in.) I think the worst aspect of it has been A's prolonged absence. I wish my emotions could catch up with my knowledge that this is probably the greatest thing she could have done for herself; I fight against my own selfishness as a matter of course. This has been one of the most difficult summers of my life, and after A's week here (she arrives back two weeks from tomorrow, on Sunday, August 17, her flight arriving in the morning), when she goes to NYC for grad school and we get to visit each other once a month or so until we get a place out there, it's probably going to get worse. My waking hours aren't really helping. Up about 3 p.m. every day, to bed around 8 a.m.--you don't get much human contact that way, which intensifies the emotional jitters. I sit up at 3 a.m. getting annoyed with colleagues I don't even know, and then wondering why I'm making such a big fucking deal of everything, and then feeling worse. A lot of unnecessary panic goes on while alone.
I'm trying to force myself to grow up a little. (Good luck, son.) You'd think a 33-year-old would have figured out before, um, yesterday that the easiest way to feed yourself on the cheap is to buy sandwich stuff, even living near the QFC From Hell (the produce is way the fuck in back, and if you wonder why, take a minute and you'll figure it out). I will probably be dealing with long-avoided bills soon as well, hopefully on my own initiative and not that of the entity I owe.
Today I hauled two cardboard boxes (books) and a huge black duffel bag (CDs) to Second Hand Books and walked out a little richer--only a little, but getting rid of all that crap made me feel rich enough. Books--Jesus. I have already filled the duffel bag full of them, so many I can barely pick it up, with about half as many more laying on my bed, awaiting a box. There'll be even more. The CDs will be similarly dispatched. This isn't mere moving prep; I could barely move in my bedroom for most of the year-and-a-half I've occupied it. Last year I covered an entire wall with stackable shelving, stuffed everything full, and had so much left over it went into piles that obliterated the shelves from the floor up to about mid-thigh. (I'm five-foot-nine.) More has accumulated since. My goal, which I decided upon a few weeks ago, has been to rid myself of roughly 50 percent of my books and CDs. That's going well; I'll be able to walk around my room a little, though aside from the bed there's not much to walk to. There'll be less to store, or move, or whatever ends up happening, depending on my financial situation and/or the size of the place A finds us in New York. (A: Storage.)