Moving sucks! Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love hard, thankless work

How in the world does a human being, or small collection of human beings, accumulate so much stuff? Why is it that when it's time to move you think it's not going to take that long, and it doesn't seem like you have that much to move, and then you find out that you've got objects hidden deep beneath the cracks of your floorboards that you forgot about?

I have spent the last few days in a state of constant busy turmoil, trying to move from one city to another. I haven't even begun to settle in yet. I spent twenty-one hours, minus dinner and porn breaks and very short masturbation sessions [just kidding about the first one, that's just gross] moving things from one house to another. Who invented moving? Because I want to kick them in the crotch.

What amazes me about moving is that it is never, ever as short an experience as you expect it to be. No matter how long you estimate it will take to move, it will always take about five or six hours longer. In fact, I believe Einstein came up with a mathematical equation about how long your move will probably take, and it goes something like this-

E= Time you estimate it will take to move [X]
times
The length of the extended editions of all three Lord Of The Rings films [Y]
times
The number of years it's been since John Travolta acted in a good movie [Z]
times
The number of years it's been since Ryan's been laid [:?:"p]
times
10,000. [A]

That's an entirely accurate, scientific model. And it still doesn't quite cover it. And do you know why it takes so goddamned long? Well, let me give you a short, abridged list of the items I found hiding in unexpected places in my room alone [and I'm not even counting the ones I found shoved up my butt]:

- One half pencil with the words 'Kentucky Is For Lovers' etched over rainbow colors

- An old roach with nothing but ash that I still tried in vain to smoke

- The remainder of my dignity, stuffed beneath two Maxim magazines and a love letter from my ex-girlfriend

- Two dozen copies of the premiere issue of 'O', Oprah Winfrey's magazine, with the chapter on 'How to look prettier in your summer skirt' mysteriously dog-eared

- Rejection letters from the Larry The Cable Guy fan club and a 'cease and desist' notice from his lawyers

- The meaning of life [which I conveniently threw in the trash by mistake.]

The next time I have the desire to move, I'm going to take a baseball bat and smash myself in the face with it about twelve or thirteen times. It's less painful than the real thing.

So, what's the point of this blog entry? I don't know. Maybe it's that as a society we feel the need to move because we have a primal instinct to be on the move to avoid predators. Or something. Maybe it's a needed emotional transition to place ourselves in a different spot in the world, staking new territory and exploring new adventures. Or maybe it's just that moving sucks and I was bored so I wrote a blog about it. I don't know. Make up your own mind, and feel free to read some sort of deep meaning in this waste of space.

Oh, yeah- insert clever ending line here.

Life is what happens when you're nursing a hangover

It seems to happen just when you're not looking. One day you're the biggest stud to ever hit the eighth grade, the next you're twenty-three with no sense of direction, a pot-belly and gray hairs that seemed to pop up every day and, for some God unknown reason, are fucking un-pluckable.

And then something happens. You fall in love. Or you are presented with some amazing opportunity to travel. Or you get the job of your dreams. Or you save a bunch of money on your car insurance. [Yes, the most over-used joke in the history of daytime television commercials.]

Or you find out that you're moving. To another state. Next week. And there's nothing you can do about it.

To explain: I'm jobless. I have been for a few months now. I've dragged my heels in the mud for far too long, and now I'm going to have to stay with my dad, who has decided to move to Arizona. Up until the other night, I was staying in California. But then plans changed. And away I'll go.

Now, ignore the fact that I'm 23 years old and still live with a parent. And not by choice. Ok, you can stop laughing now. Seriously, you're starting to hurt my feelings. Ok, maybe just a little more. Ok, now if you've gotten that out of your system...

So, I can't help but ask myself what happened? I ignored school like women ignore me; you just sit there and smile and make polite conversation with everyone else in the room and quietly hope that it goes away.

I get out of school and immediately start a full-time job. In the valley. Because I sat down one day and had a serious talk with myself. I said, Ryan- I think that you could benefit from a bit more stress. Yes, sir, the problem with you is that you're far too content with your life, and things are going too well. What I suggest to you, my friend, is two hours plus on the road, to and from work, and a job you hate. Then, once you've completely lost faith in life, you'll lose that job and get another one and the cycle will start all over again, with little bursts of unemployment in-between.

And I have to wonder exactly what I was thinking this whole time. And what I continue to think, as I realize that the cycle will start all over again in just a few short weeks [with the added pleasure of one-hundred degree plus weather year round, including winter. Oh, especially winter.]

And it occurred to me tonight- after a decent amount of thinking, a big bowl of steamed potatoes, and some Rum and Coke [ok, a lot of Rum and Coke]- is that I am a masochist. A life masochist. See, because I can't find a live sex partner [and even the inflatable kind seems to mysteriously deflate on me every single time I buy one, even though the guy at Naughty By Night swears to me that they're good quality, and if I wouldn't mind staying a few minutes after closing he'd show me]- I find a partner in the erotic arts in life itself.

See, it seems that life, and, maybe by extension, God herself is the ultimate sadist. Think about it- whenever you ask something of Her [I'm calling her her, because I don't feel comfortable calling her him because I'm not ready to explore that part of myself yet], God rejects you. Why, you may ask? Because you're asking for something that may benefit your life. But if you look up with hope in your eyes and say, "God, please fuck me! Please dump everything you've got in my lap and just play doctor and put a finger up my butt without a glove"- well, God is more than happy to oblige.

So, I'm the masochist in the relationship, and God, or life [since I'm trying to avoid entering Dante's Inferno] is the girlfriend who always takes control in the bedroom, and keeps being a little rougher, and a little rougher, until the next thing you know she's introducing rubber outfits and dildos and assuring you you're not weird for going along with it. Every time you need a quickie, life is ready to hand it to you, and always at the most inopportune moments.

Unlike a trust-worthy dominatrix, however, there is no "safe-word" with life. How awesome would that be? You're going along, and you lose your job, and as you're walking to your car you're hit by a van driven by a little old lady with coke-bottle glasses, and just as St. Peter is snapping on that rubber glove and giving you that "come hither" look, you say "apple" and everything stops cold.

And life lets you take a break. Go watch some Leno. Hey, babe, I'm not really up for this tonight, how about we do this some other night, you know, when I don't have such a raging headache.

Unfortunately, life doesn't have a safe word. You can lay under the tires of a semi all you want, but screaming "apple, apple!" at the top of your lungs isn't going to accomplish anything other than people looking at you like you're a fucking nutjob right before you succumb to death's warm embrace.

My advice? Suck it up and let life stick that finger right in your butt. No matter how uncomfortable it is for you to be standing in the middle of the doctor's office with a really cute twenty-something nurse watching as your sixty-year old plus doctor is playing with your prostate saying, "You may feel a little pinch"- smile. Smile and say, "Thanks Doc. Gee, what are you doing after closing time?" Because things can always be worse. And there's no point in walking around upset all the time. That's why God invented marijuana. And, really, have you ever seen someone sad and high?

So, put on some Bob Marley, light up that pipe, and take a toke for me. I'd stay and join you, but I have to return something to Naughty By Night. And it's just about closing time.