Wake up Call

So I’ve got to move. Like now. I have to pack up four and a half years of stuff and get it out of my favorite apartment ever in less than a week. It’s sad, and I’m in pain from having had surgery on my armpit several days ago so this isn’t me in the best of times. Whatever, a girl’s gotta do.

I’m moving most all of my belongings into storage. My Dad was nice enough to meet me at a Public Storage facility early yesterday morning and help me rent a space that will, with any sort of luck, be big enough to store my most treasured items. All the other stuff will just have to be gotten rid of. I had planned to list on Craigslist a sale of sorts, but of course spent my time setting up a blog instead. You know, priorities.  Anyhow, in the mean time my Mom goes out garage-sailing this lovely morning and runs into some ladies that need things. This means that I wake from my vicodin daze at 9:somethingorother to Mom calling me and telling me she’s given out my address and number. Um, say what?

This news is not only jarring due to the fact that my brain is yet to turn on, but because I am in NO WAY prepared to have people come look at furniture. The computer desk is still fully outfitted with the computer and all the past-due bills and crap that I threw into the over-flowing file boxes on it. The kitchen unit still has a microwave and stereo and dust galore. I’m just in no way ready to have people here. Or be out of bed. Or be awake. Or be a functional, contributing member of society.

I hop out of bed (ok, you got me, I rolled out and stumbled a bit) and throw on a bra and pull my hair into a half assed ponytail. It’s now time to wake the 11 year old monster who, if you can believe it, is less of a morning person than his mother. Feverishly I find places for the crap that adorns the belongings I’ve decided can go and I dust, arrange, and photograph. Now I’m sweating, and smelling just peachy – the perfect state for company! Since I have no idea when these folks are coming and what exactly of mine they may want I start my brain and fire up the computer (the other one, not the one I just threw into a box to clear off the desk) and write up my ad letting the Seattle-Metro area know they need to come get my shit and give me money for it because I fucking need it. Well, maybe the ad was a little less profanity laden, but that’s what I was thinking when I wrote it up.

So now I sit and wait. Wait for people to try and give me the shaft and tell me they want my crap but don’t want to pay the price my crap isn’t worth to buy it. I tried to go reasonable and shit, but still. I NEED MONEY. I have some change in my purse and lint in my pocket, but dude, that ain’t gonna pay my bills. Or the back rent I owe. Or for a Hello Kitty tattoo. Priorities after all.