I am terrified to move. I have no plans to do so at this juncture, but that doesn't prevent this looming burden from hanging over my shoulders because frankly, I'll probably be moving again at some point. No, I don't know when. But it'll happen. And it is going to be fucking horrible. Here's a quick list of things that I do not enjoy: lifting heavy things, wrapping things in newspaper, taping boxes closed, removing items from their current locations, cardboard cubes, discovering how years of cleaning around and never behind and/or under an object leads to mini-civilizations of dust and microbes that have evolved to the point where they too dislike moving their shit across germ town. To be fair, packing is okay because that shit is like playing Tetris. Anyway, I worry about moving for those myriad reasons (actually not so myriad; all just relates to my laziness) but also because nothing, fucking nothing, is as heavy as books. Anytime a group of paper gets together inside a box, it somehow turns into a singularity wherein matter is crushed to infinite density, the pull of gravity is infinitely strong and space-time has infinite curvature. Space and time cease to exist as we know them and we are left to confront our new found Lovecraft-ian horror cognizance that there are still hundreds of thousand more pieces of paper awaiting. I love my comics, I do, but the thought of moving these:
not to mention the piece of furniture housing them, is decidedly un-dope. Anyway, I'm super lazy and big on complaining about theoretical moves that are in no way a reality yet, I guess was the point of this. Also, those are some of my comics in that picture up there. Word.
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