I Should Be Packing Boxes

I really should be packing goddamned boxes. This is where I usually wish I were illiterate so I wouldn't have around 48,204, no 48,205 books to pack up. And they're all going up four flights of stairs to the third floor of a 1940's building with no elevator. Joy.

I've got a wonderous seven, count 'em, seven days left in this five-story Roach Motel. Actually there are no roaches, just asshat neighbors. They alternate between arguing and "making up". Or maybe they're not making up, they're re-enacting the "squeal like a pig" scene from Deliverence. Use your imagination, it'll probably be close to the reality, no matter how disgusting.

So instead of packing boxes I'm knitting on that sleeve. I could probably do both of them since I should be doing something else--like packing or ummm, homework.

Crap. I forgot I had homework.