Packing up.

In a few more days, I'll be leaving this lousy apartment behind the garage and down the alley way. Most of the shelves are empty, my books are gone, but my Beatles posters are still up and my computer is still plugged in. They'll be the last thing I take down. I've been packing and carting stuff out of here for the last few weeks, but it still feels like I've got nothing done.

I know this move is good for me, but I'm still upset. I'll be moving in to my mom's house, just a few blocks away. And at my age and with my good job, I feel like such a loser. But it's something I need to do. I need to pay down my debt, and I need to get away from these horrible people upstairs playing music all day and night and from landlords who don't seem to care if the ceiling leaks all over my computer or if the toilet keeps flooding. Ever since the owners bought this house, it seems that everything that could go wrong did.

On the plus side, mom and I work very different hours. So I'll have the house to myself during the day, and she'll be asleep when I get home. It's kind of like having a roommate you never see. And I'll be saving - the rent for this hole of an apartment is ridiculous. Gas prices are ridiculous. The new and higher interest rate on my student loan is ridiculous. I'll be able to pay for this now, and maybe I won't feel horrible about not having money for Christmas gifts or I can actually go on a vacation.

The biggest things I hope to gain from this is I can finally get rid of Matt, my ex-boyfriend. The so very charming when you meet him or introduce him to people, but horrible, secret life-leading type in reality. He helped me find this apartment when I needed to get out of my crazy housing situation. He spent more time here than I did, which explains why I'm still finding memories of him as I pack. A purse he got me. Some crumpled up papers with phone numbers, scrawled in his handwriting. A rap tape. A really gross jar of grease in the cabinet that I know I didn't put there because I don't cook. Ticket stubs from our trip to Lake George. All of it now in the trash where it belongs. The worst and hardest thing: A hole he put in the wall that he put there when I told him I was breaking up with him. I've had it covered with a U2 poster for the last two years. After that happened, I knew I was doing the smartest thing I've ever done in my life. But I still need to fix it. It's already filled in, just needs some paint. Then it's goodbye.