I began "officially" packing for my move on August 5th. On that date, I will have lived in this house for exactly one year. Amazing how time flies--even more amazing how many changes I have gone through in the past year. I am calmer and happier than I have been in a long time. The East Coast was rubbish (except for a few wonderful friends who made my life there much more bearable) and I feel as though the Midwest is where I belong, for now at least.

Soon I will begin the process of packing away my life into Rubbermaid containers and banana boxes, throwing out items I once believed I had a use for, and thinking about all the times I've shared with my roommates. We have had our share of ups and downs, but I believe this experience was beneficial. I'll never again attempt living with multiple individuals who are almost ten years younger than me, but I do have a few good stories to share about my time in this house.

For instance, there is a bit of dried silly string clinging to the ceiling above my bed. Gross, to be sure, but that silly string serves as a reminder that this house was once occupied by five female ultimate frisbee players. Who knows how that silly string found itself on the ceiling, and who knows how long it has been there--all I know is that when I take a nap in the afternoon, I always stare at the blue patch and say to myself, "I should really clean that shit up." However, I am fully aware that I will never drag a ladder up here to actually complete that task.

Then there's the shower in the upstairs part of this house. It has fish grippy-things in it, to keep drunk people from falling and cracking their heads open. The fish are smiling like imbeciles and blowing bubbles, yet they serve a noble purpose. When I was having severe vertigo, I used to stare at them and thank them for keeping me alive. (In case you didn't know, vertigo can be a real bastard while one is taking a hot shower.) When the dizziness overcame me, I would focus on one of the large fish until the shower stopped spinning. I'm going to miss those fish.

Then there's the case of beer in the basement. There are at least seven different types of beers in this case, all of which are dusty and skunked--yet no one ever thinks to throw the case of beer away. It just sits under the stairs, like the Tin Soldier from the Eugene Field poem "Little Boy Blue," waiting for someone to come play with them as the world slowly changes around them. These are the beers that time forgot, and they were delivered to my house by my major professor shortly after I moved into the house. She brought them over one day when she was helping her daughter clean out her house, and when a roommate opened the door, rather than me, my major professor carded him to make sure she was not giving beer to a twenty-year-old college student. (Then again, she is a police commissioner.)

I could go on, but I feel as if I may end up channeling The Barenaked Ladies Song, "The Old Apartment."

*sigh*

This place is not all that bad. Still, I am a grown man and I need my own space. Just ask Virginia Woolf--she'll tell you that everyone needs a room of their own.