I'm so fascinated by the downward spiral I cannot look away.

Dear Fucko Movers

I'd like to thank you for your services. No, the 9 hours we waited in the empty apartment beyond your ETA were no problem. We knew you'd be a little delayed, as you mentioned a second pickup and (as I kept reminding my father) the speed limit for trucks is lower than the speed limit for private vehicles on the highway. When you mentioned arriving at the second site and determining that it would be impossible to condense the two orders into one truck, however, how did you occupy yourselves for the following 5 hours? Would it not have made more sense to attempt your escape from the metropolis before 5pm on a weekday?

It was really amazing the way you worked as a team, moving from room to room to ensure an even mix of unrelated items in each box. And I have to thank you for the total absence of labelling and/or inventory on most of these. It's kind of like Christmas. Except Christmas rarely involves 3,000+ pounds of one's own belongings, rewrapped in plain brown cardboard. Moreover, my childhood holiday memories do not include memories of used bath towels, cheap underwear, and outdated USB cables. I never had to search through all of my gifts for a week before I could take a shower and change my underwear. Truth be told, the primary arena in which your packaging compares to the gifts of my youth is proliferation of alleged book boxes. The proportion of actual units of bound reading material to random wires/uncapped markers/loose bandaids/ your own used kleenex (YES!) notwithstanding, any box containing books that managed to get inventoried was inventoried "books."

Out of curiosity, you wouldn’t happen to have my laundry hamper? Not the white laundry basket you broke the handles off of when you straggled in at 11pm, but an actual stand-up hamper. It’s okay if you do, I’m accustomed to living in and out of crumpled dirty laundry carried round in a bag. Admittedly it might be of use in my foray in the world of the organized peoples, but I’m not holding my breath.

You didn’t happen to grab my unopened bottles of red hair dye along with it, eh? No need to be ashamed. I was hoping to redo my hair, but I’m honestly getting a little old for unironic technicolor dye jobs. So thanks, actually. I’m just happy that most of my empty containers of toiletries arrived safely. Somebody must be real Tetris_TM champion, judging from the 5 gallon bucket and the bathroom trashcan between which every ickle bit imaginable was split. Toiletries and bathroom supplies were coated in a liquid yellow soap and the last 100ml or so of Witch Hazel that was left in the lidless bottle.

I really must applaud Tweedlewayne and Tweedlegarth: in defiance of both physics and common sense they squeezed it all in together, somehow managing to fit a bottle of household cleanser- loose-lidded and upside down, of course, in with everything else. "Everything else" included items such as those I often stick in my mouth or eyes. Then there are the items that keep such intimate company with my face and the rest of my skin- even my hair on occasion.

On the other hand, if you have the remainder of my kitchen, I must confess that I’m a bit irked. While I appreciate the tender, loving care that you took with my expired condoms and lube and delicacy which which you packed away my sex toys, I have to be honest. Those are relics. What I need right now is the rest of my bathroom and kitchen. Keeping the Dept. of Sanitation away requires some serious artillery. These testy little bits keep me-or at least-the house clean. I'd also like the teas, coffees, remaining storage and flatware, and magical packets that turn pebbles into stew and piss into wine.

I can’t complain too much, though. I still have a coaster. I shouldn’t overlook the mixture of red and yellow curries, cilantro, and cinnamon that wound up evenly spread among the single plate, salad bowl, mug, butter knife, broken spatula, dry measuring cup, wet measuring cup, soup spoon, measuring spoon, whisk, and (unmatched) homeless knives. I never wanted a spicerack for years, anyway. I know I should particularly appreciate the open box of stale croutons thrown in a atop my fur coat.

What vaguely amused me
Ah, wait. I forget. There was actually one box of "books" that was inventoried either in more detail, or differently (I forget which). It was labeled "CD"s. Naturally, it contained aging collection of cassette tapes. I had to wonder why? Do LPs get inventoried the same way?

Praise jeebus, they packed- and delivered unharmed- a spherical (glass) light fixture. Along with a fishbowl. And two glass pipes. The latter were packed by me, for presumably obvious reasons. The first two were thrown haphazardly into a wardrobe box with a lot of random crap, none of which included wrapping paper. At the same time, they maimed my spice rack for life, broke a bottle of liquid soap, and (apparently)handled my laundry hamper, backlog of cleaning stuff, and extra yoga mat so badly as to render them invisible.

How on Earth do you deliver glass intact while destroying plastic?

Moving Day

I'm halfway out of tape, but only 1/3 of the way through the boxes you brought me. You are a physicist, so I know you based your calculations on some sort of formula. I am trying to convince my myself you have developed a mathematical formula to predict laziness. 15*3³foot boxes do something 30*1.5³foot boxes take the squiggly doo from subject's most recent GAF score equals n(100)ft of packing tape. When tape is gone subject may stop, for this is all she is capable of.

Please remember light bulbs and the bolt cutters*. Just don't get pulled over on the way up, or you will get thrown in jail as a suspect for grand larceny and presumed meth addict. I know because I've seen it on C*O*P*S. I swear

love,
E

*For getting out the emergency exit landlord keeps closed w/ padlock in memoriam to Old Lady Leary.

N.B. I did not really send this letter

At the drugstore, Behind the counter

I spot a sign hanging from the cigarette display: Wanted For Homicide on 82nd St. . . I see these sort of wanted/missing posters by the multitude in every store window, each time I leave the house. The only days I don't hear gunfire are those when I stay inside with the A/C on. It wouldn't be so shocking were it not obvious that it came from someone's home printer.

I'll say it again: "You can do better, Chicago!" Sure, I see the occasional mini-patrol of brave bike cops riding up the main drag in broad daylight. That's fabulous. But one block South I am mugged, and 1 block North I'm assaulted. I suppose I'm lucky that I'm not a laser-printed flyer, yet all I feel is disgust that the officials find it so easy to ignore millions of real people.

I think I need a scoliosis check, because this city is so crooked it tilts.

Why do passers by feel it is within the realm of polite society to comment on my mental status? Telling me to smile seems akin to asking a random woman when she's due. There's simply too much emotional payload to be editorializing like that. When it comes right down to it, popping out of the blue to tell Anonymous Flat Affect Girl "Cheer up, it's not that bad" is statistically more dangerous. Let's face it, pregnancy is generally easier for the lay person to diagnose than mental illness.

Still, that's no excuse. Look, I've been on (at least) an SSRI anti-depressant for most of the past 8 years. This is emotional botox. The stuff is still going on somewhere inside, but I am frozen on there surface. I don't spontaneously smile at all and I rarely laugh. I can rarely cry anymore- only when I'm exhausted, angry and hopeless. In other words, only over nothing, over myself. I certainly can't cry over books or movies anymore. Worse still, I struggle to mourn family and friends who have died over these years. It's like needing to yawn for ages without ever managing to get the oxygen to satisfy it.

I have flattened out so much that one moron actually diagnosed me with schizophrenia on the basis of all my negative symptoms. But the truth is that between the drugs and the depression, I no longer have any interests nor can I sustain anyone else's interest. I've also slowed down and pulled back from society quite a bit, so it's pretty unlikely that I would ever manage this entire comeback in a timely manner in real life. So I'm posting it here, for nobody to see it.

Don't fucking tell me to smile. Especially in line at the food pantry.

@#(@)*$! Medical Residents. . .

July is the Cruelest Month

Just what is it about being a million dollars in debt and spending 4 years working 80 hours a week for minimum wage that makes it so simple to peel back a that counter-tranference you psych residents have oozed into us? Come on Dr. N_____. You don't really want to take your boards, you know you don't. You've been meeting with me since February, and hence have proof positive that high-stakes interpersonally-focused, relatively abstractionist professions are very very bad for your health.

And you were such a great shrink. But really, it's all about you. Take care of yourself. According to my life clock, I will surely have 4 months' access to another good psychiatrist in 2014.

Thanks, Congress

We were more than overdue for a hike in the minimum wage. The last time you passed an action on this, I was living in a state that adhered to the federal guidelines and slinging sandwiches for 4.25 an hour. So I can certainly appreciate the difference this will make.

Can you do all of us little folks living below the poverty line a favor next time, though? Keep it a secret until the law goes into effect. That way retail won't have several months advance to start gouging us on household items before we start collecting your spare change.