Moving is painful and in the hopes of feeling like I’ve accomplished something in the past two weeks, I will detail the stages of moving here for your amusement. Feel free to laugh at me rather than with me; I don’t have the energy left over from moving for anything but a meaningful look at this point.

1. Packing. I didn’t have to do a lot of this, because most of my things were still packed from my earlier move. That’s a good thing, because I’m pretty much awful at it, having approximately the spatial awareness capability of a turnip.

I pretty much just threw as much stuff as I could into bags and then shoved it into my car. Since the new place is only across town from the old place, this actually worked and nothing was crushed into tiny little pieces.

2. Moving. This involves actually picking things up in one place and putting them down somewhere else. I moved the small stuff myself, causing an incredible array of aches and bruises, but for my anvil collection and my prized set of giant boulders, I had the assistance of coworkers Brian and John, both of whom have trucks, and more importantly, muscles that do not consist of 98% Grade A flab, like mine.

John is also gifted with some sort of moving superpower–he can fit way more stuff into one trailer than should be possible. It was like a clowncar, only instead of clowns coming out of the trailer, it was furniture. (Thank goodness. I mean, clowns. Brrrr.)

3. Cleaning. I haven’t even started on this, but I will have the invaluable help of my mother. She’s extremely persnickety about cleaning, and whoever gets my apartment after me will probably be able to eat off of any surface in it, up to and including the ceiling.

4. Unpacking. … do I have to? Isn’t there some statute on the books that says you must keep at least one box packed after every move for at least ten years?

Well there should be.