imwithjonas's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Life Is Like a Box of Hermit Crabs Life Is Like a Box of Hermit CrabsI've spent the last nine months living in a trashy dorm at dear 80MAU. Yesterday I had the great displeasure of moving to quarters directly across the street from my former residence in LaGhetto Hall. Welcome to River Styx Hall. My day began bright and early at 8:30 a.m. I got up and resumed the frantic shoving things into boxes that I had begun the night before. I finished that up fairly quickly and tossed the heaps of trash that were lying about. Those were the easy hours. Round about 10:30, Pat showed up and we got to work. There were no carts to be had, so we dragged boxes and boxes and boxes of crap down to the elevator. Then, in a series of three trips, we tossed stuff into the elevator and tossed it back out downstairs. On the last trip, I set my poor hermit crabs on top of a precariously teetering pile of things. They fell to their near doom as I watched in horror. Sand, shells, and Isabella and Skibbleshanks the railway crab were scattered across the elevator floor. Frantic gathering and sweeping ensued. My Gollum figurine was unfortunately decapitated in the accident. After that whole disaster, we completely packed the poor car. The trunk couldn't be closed, and one box was literally hanging out a side window. Of course, there was still stuff left. Fortunately my helpful Area Coordinator helped me haul the rest of the junk across the street. Woo. I proceeded to the front desk of River Styx and asked for my key. Someone cheerfully ran off to fetch it as another someone cheerfully said, "That'll be $190 please!" Umm. Ok. Find $190 or live at home for two weeks. I'm completely okay with this. Really. I'm completely calm and under control. Until we got into my new room and I threw all my keys across the room. I wanted rather desperately to not have a problem with all this, but that was pretty much impossible. Unpossible even. When all was said and done, I pawned away some of my more precious worldly possessions. My GameCube, games and other accessories went for $100. I was pretty satisfied with that. I wanted to cry over the guitar. Last May I bought a beautiful left-handed Epiphone Les Paul Special II, Heritage Cherry Sunburst finish. I owned it just under a year. I pawned it, and the Fender amp I bought with it. I paid over $300 for the guitar, amp, and gig bag. I sold the whole mess for $100. I felt like a failure. I wanted to die. Why was this extra two weeks of dorm life important enough that I was willing to sell my favorite things? What makes it all worth while? Why didn't I just give in when one of my several parents did everything but call me stupid for not coming home? By the end of the day, I wanted nothing more than to run home and cry on someone's shoulder and have him or her tell me that everything was ok. That's exactly why I stayed. I love my family. They all have the capacity to be remarkable people. They often are. But I don't feel like that house is home anymore. When I first moved here, I missed my home city. I missed all my friends. I missed the lazy pattern my summer days had assumed. University Town is all I need now. I've come to love the place in the past month or so. I still love the friends I left behind, but I don't miss them now. I love all the new patterns I've developed. My poor hermit crabs liked their bowl just the way it was. It was flipped upside down and everything changed for a while. It was scary and different. But now they're settled. They're already perfectly at home. Who'd have thought you could learn something important from hermit crabs? Thanks to Isabella and Skibbleshanks. I like my current bowl. I don't really have any desire to return to the old one. A sympathetic friend put it all quite nicely. She said "All I want is to get out of my house. I can't imagine getting out and being free then going back." I did imagine it. That's all the motivation I need to do whatever I can to never go back. I wanted to run home and cry on someone's shoulder. But I am home, and I know some particularly kind people with very comfortable shoulders. Now to get on with the job search. Feel free to email me if you think you could give me a job. I'd prefer to not be doing any prostituting, but I'll take any particularly good offers into consideration. 10:20 p.m. - May 15, 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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