I’m throwing away everything I find that’s related to him.
Actually, I’ll put it in a box so I can burn it…
…or just look through it the next time I’m drunk and need a good cry.
Do I bring all my crafted canvases with me?
What if the girl who wanted to be my big comes over for a wine night and doesn’t see the crudely painted letters she made for me and gets upset?
Ugh, this is stressful.
I deserve a break.
I’ll just finish tomorrow.
I have plenty of time.
Despite the fact that I have to turn in my keys today, I think I’ll watch “Gossip Girl” for a while.
Who knew Chuck was so hot? Why didn’t anyone tell me this?
Whoever invented packing was obviously a horrible person.
YOU HAVE TO TAPE UP THE BOTTOM OF THE BOXES? WHY DOESN’T IT SAY THAT ON THE BOX?
It’s too fucking hot for this.
I should have spent $200 and hired movers.
Do NOT say “at least you’re getting a workout.”
I pay $40 a month to get a workout in an air conditioned gym full of televisions, hot men, and free, low-carb snacks.
I’m bad at Tetris, so therefore piling everything into my fun-sized car is actually impossible.
This is why I need a boyfriend.
I bet Zac Efron would carry these boxes down the stairs for me.
Who knew sweat could continuously run from your neck to your ass crack?
I don’t even want this heavy family heirloom. It’s going on Craigslist.
“Oh, hey there, sexy new neighbor. No, I don’t always look like a smelly, frazzled, German boy. Please come back after I’ve showered and drunk enough wine to forget that we met this way.”
So, now that I put everything in boxes, walked them down way too many flights of stairs, and put all the boxes in my car, I have to take them all out of my car and carry them up even more flights of stairs only to take all of my stuff out of the boxes?
This is the actual worst.
I’m never fucking moving again.
Well, until my 12-month lease is up and I think to myself, “I can’t wait to move out of this hell hole. My new apartment rocks.”