Little boxes made of ticky tacky

I had to move apartments. Again.

And this time it wasn’t because I had been kicked out by a landlord who looked like he belonged on Tatooine. Or because my apartment was actually an enclosed swimming pool during the monsoon, but just because ‘I felt like it.’ I should have just run really fast into a wall, headfirst, when I felt the ‘I feel like it’ feeling come on. But I didn’t.
I’m undamaged and hiding in a room full of dust, while an army of Akil’s men attempt to fix my apartment.

It was awesome yesterday. Because I was still in Goa, and my mother, who is actually McGyver, had moved all my stuff from apartment A to apartment B. And by the time I swung by, everything had been taken care of and I was handed a pink milkshake by Dhruv. How could this be painful?
Well, for starters, my mom took a flight out of Bombay today and realisation hit me like a truck with no headlights.

Boxes.
So. Many. Boxes.
Somuchjunk.

I could just set it on fire and no one would ever know.
I’m not fond of soot, so I decided to brave this one through. But not before making about a dozen calls to different brokers to try and find out property rates in Bandra, so that after this, I never have to move again. Ever.
Ever.

Anyway, after having several delusions of grandeur about doing ‘this to the living room’ and ‘putting that painting over there’, I’m just going to be glad once they’ve managed to fix the a/c and change some bulbs. That’s all I want of them. And of my life. Some fresh air and some light. You don’t really need much more.

I was just taken to the living room and told “Madam, I think your tv is broken”.
My tv is broken.
It’s not coming on.
Who the hell needs a television anyway.
Especially when the person telling you this is about six and a half feet tall with a mullet.
I wanted to hold his collar and tell him “My tv can’t be broken, because if it is, I’ll have to do the same to your face. P.s – the Beastie Boys called, they want their hair back….. bitch!”.
Instead I smiled and asked him if he wanted some water and he said he’ll get a mechanic the next day. Because my tv is also a car.
Mechanic.
Death.

So yeah, live on the street. Don’t ever move apartments. And if you do, make sure the packers and movers are smaller than you so that you can punch them.

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Published by therunawayjuiceincident

I write about my travels. Intergalactic and otherwise....

One thought on “Little boxes made of ticky tacky

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