By MATT CRANE
In the past five years, I have moved to six different places around the Starkville-MSU area and, quite frankly, Iâ€™m sick of it.
Moving is a specific form of first-world torture that claims the souls and disturbs the sleep-cycles of millions of young adults during the last two weeks of July every year.
Apparently, I committed many a sin in a past life to deserve this transitory fate.
With the combination of work, moving and performing in a show, I am legitimately tired. During a particularly late night session of â€śWhoâ€™s got the packing tape,â€ť I began feeling sick. Concerned that I may have caught something from inhaling the massive amounts of dust and debris that rested behind the television stand, I entered my symptoms into WebMD and waited for an answer.
The internet told me I had been dead for the past 38 minutes, but that seemed fishy.
It seems the Lord has spared me of any actual illness and I am just exhausted. Celebrities check themselves into the hospital for exhaustion all the time, so any mail can be forwarded to my room at OCH for the time being.
Listen to me complain. Itâ€™s not really all that bad all the time.
Over the years, Iâ€™ve learned how not to get emotionally attached to the items Iâ€™m packing away. Instead of finding an old yearbook and crying about my third grade teacher, I am now able to sort and label like a champ.
I have also learned that I am a borderline hoarder with an affinity for those peppermints that bars or restaurants leave at the front door. There were 42 candied breath savers in the back of my closet, and I honest to God do not know how they got there.
I can only find one of my house slippers which is upsetting on many levels, but mostly because what in the name of Sarah Palin am I supposed to do with one house slipper.
I decided to keep it, though. Like the awkward brother of a poor manâ€™s Prince Charming, I will keep this slipper in hopes of reuniting the pair and living lazily ever after.
The only real redeeming quality to moving is the sensation of starting over and being able to reinvent yourself or your life in ways that only seem possible in a new location.
Matt 2.0, so to speak.
I am thankful to my roommates from the past, however, because they have allowed me to grow and become someone better with each passing year: two years of halls filled with freshmen that made me want to pull my hair out, while making sure we all stayed friends; a beautifully gifted, artistic cousin who brought the comfort of home and family when I first lived by myself; four talented, learned gentlemen who I had the pleasure of calling brothers; and the two best friends a guy could ask for.
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