And I hate packing, I really do. I hate it so much that I would much rather eat a whole apple, which would make sense if you knew how much I loathe fruit.
I had already moved two suitcases (and innumerous paper-bag loads) of clothes and belongings to E's, but I still had so much left in my apartment, I don't know how or why.
So he came over the other night and got into action immediately, staying up till 4 to pack and throw, pack and throw. I was pretty useless. I sat down in a corner of my room and picked up a magazine out of the pile and end up flipping through the glossy pages and picking out my favourite outfit, and then I started looking at the photo of my dad and I and asked E to take a look too (while he was vacuuming the corners) and he had to remind me that "baby this is the FOURTH time you're asking me to look at this".
It ended up with my living room being covered with literally a mountain load of rubbish, and we got garbage bags and begin to sort them by combustible, recyclable, glass, PET bottles etc. We filled up 6 huge bags with junk, and my room was almost cleared out except for the furniture I am leaving for Jo.
It was amazing. He was amazing. I would never have been able to do it by myself, or in that time.
And although I had barely done anything, I was pooped. He, on the other hand, remarked that he was "full of beans" (apparently it means full of energy) and tried to keep me talking but I was losing my mind.
The next morning, we woke up past noon, bleary-eyed. We proceeded to fill up my last 32" suitcase with more stuff and dragged it all the way from my place to his, which took us over an hour and involved a short taxi ride (to save us dragging it up the hill).
In other words, I have officially moved into my new neighbourhood. It is suburban, quiet, and a little uppity even, but it feels like a real home, and I love it.