moving makes you ask questions . . .

for instance:

How does 2,000 square feet of crap fit into a 760-square-foot apartment?
How can I have a sink full of dirty dishes? I sold all my dishes!
And by the way, by what logic did I decide it was not worth schlepping dishes, silverware and a dining room table 2,500 miles cross country, but a Captain Kirk figurine from Star Trek: The Motion Picture, three computers I never use and 50 pairs of shoes are totally worth it?
Was whatever is under my bed/in my shoeboxes/in the corners of the closet once alive? How close did it get to me before it died?
Am I really exhausted, or is the writing on all the boxes in German?
So THAT’S where I put that (sock, extra cell phone, videotape of a 1986 episode of General Hospital)?
How many coffee mugs commemorating a place/event/organization you’ve had nothing to do with in 10 years can one person have?

Did I really throw a skirt in the dumpster for no other reason than I was too exhausted to figure out where to pack it, but carefully bag up and pack my wine cork collection? (answer: yes. I really did.)
If I just sit on the couch, will the apartment pack itself? Please?
Am I really going to do this all over again when we buy a house?

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