Hello, Maple Ridge

I handed over my keys today.

That means that tonight I'm sitting in my parents' basement listening to the sound of the tenant with Noisy American Boyfriend Number Two. I swear he has no volume control on his voice, which is especially apparent around midnightish when he always seems to be talking.

Though, I shouldn't complain all that much because I think he's infinitely better than Noisy American Boyfriend Number One. When you're writing papers and studying for exams, nothing is more distracting than suddenly hearing grunts and the couch upstairs squeaking. Once discovered, it's hard to tune out.

I don't really have any space out here. My bed's been in the living room for a while now. I change my clothes... wherever. I've set up my desk in this armchair. Shower time is at a premium.

One good thing about this lack of space is that it gives me a good reason to be ruthless in the culling of the stuff I own. For years I have clung to everything using every stupid psychological and sentimental reason as justification for continuing to be the packrat that I am. Paradoxically, at the same time that I found myself unable to send things away, I wanted badly to be rid of the clutter. I'd get really pissed off when people bought me tons of random crap for gifts instead of the one thing I wanted, but would be unable to exchange or return it all because it was given to me as a gift.

Now I really have no space for it all. Some things have to go.

I'm a little cautious about being optimistic right now. I walk around on eggshells. I go back to being a turtle, dragging everything around with me, spending as little time as possible at home.

Things could be worse.