Vampirekat (vampirekat) wrote,

I am not a bookstore clerk, but I play one on tv.

In the last couple of weeks I quit my job, quit smoking, maybe (and that's a giant maybe, mind you) found an apartment in New York and almost (ALMOST) began the overwhelming project of cleaning and packing my apartment here.

It feels a bit strange not to be shelving books for a living (at least for the time being). I might be even missing it a little. I am now forbidden from buying books. Ever. Okay, so maybe not EVER ever, but not until I actually read ALL the stuff I bought for myself and conned Manuel into buying for me in these past two years. Oh, the one exception is academic texts, those I can buy. But no recreational reading material until my multiple "to read" piles are gone. Also, no more 33% discount, no more hanging around a bookstore eight hours a day, five days a week checking out new stuff while adding every other book to my eternally growing "iwantiwantiwant" list. And no more paycheck, so upholding this rule should be reasonably easy.

Quitting smoking seemed as effortless as starting in the first place (like, over 15 years ago). No physical addiction to speak of (according to me), and no withdrawal. The habit though, is a different story. Smoking is (was?) part of my culture. I hardly recognize myself when not surrounded by a Camel cloud with a cigarette between my fingers. Some activities seem to require it more than others. Drinking, for example. Also coffee, computer, tv, waking up; you get the point. But really, I don't FEEL like smoking, I am just still used to doing it. So I am done and it was very easy. And it's not about willpower and it's not about health and it's not about anyone else's opinion. It's just that I don't feel like it anymore. Also, I am allowing myself to smoke in select social occasions involving large amounts of alcohol. One or two cigarettes a week are not going to kill me, at least not compared to the pack-a-day habit I maintained for well over a decade. So that's that.

If I was to list my very special talents or abilities, procrastination would have to be one of them. Seriously, I have less than a month and I can't believe that I am barely starting to clean out this mess of an apartment. Okay, so it's not like my place is dirty (although, actually, sometimes it is) but it's big and I am a pack rat. A big, fat, obsessive pack rat. I have a theory about that, actually. Maybe I was terribly deprived as a child... No, that's not it. Okay, how about in a former life then? Oh, screw it, I am probably just plain psychotic because, seriously, who keeps EVERYTHING? Apparently, I do and in no discernible order, either. Manuel is pretty bad too, but nothing like me. So, I am throwing over half of this crap away and packing only (ONLY!!!) usable, necessary stuff that will actually fit in a much, MUCH smaller apartment.

And speaking of which, I would love, love, LOVE to know if we are actually getting this place (perfect location & the only place I have actually liked/loved of the half a dozen we've seen so far, expensive though) because if we are not, then we are in real trouble. And if that happens, I should probably re-think Manhattan altogether, which means Brooklyn here I come, which isn't bad per se, but dammit I watched all those movies and sit-coms and now I am finally moving to New York and I want it all and I want it right this very second and I am done waiting for things to get easier/better/whatever and I should seriously be allowed to have my cake and eat it too and that means Manhattan, most likely thanks to some stupid, romantic idea, but that's what it means, so there. Oooph.

I am yet to reach the "more excited than nervous" stage regarding this whole thing and I really should be cleaning and throwing crap away (why would anyone hold on to a dried out, not particularly flattering lip gloss for 5 years is truly beyond me) but I also promised myself that I would get back into the habit of writing everyday, so here we are.
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