my curse

When I turned 18, I left home, following a rite of passage like the rest of my peers. Since then, I have moved every single year. That's seven times in seven years. Need I delve into how annoying of a process this is? The number of boxes I've used, the rolls of duck tape, the I don't know how many hands who have helped me load and carry my crap across the city of Orlando, to Tampa, and back to Orlando, and now to West Palm. Each move was necessary, some were planned, and some were surprises. Each time, it's worked better than the year before. I can't complain (though my brother does, as he is the main set of arms who have helped in my relocating), since each year has taught me something different. How long will I continue this rather nomad existence? I happen to think the curse will break when I get married, as an alternative line of thinking than you're typical fairy tale. I shouldn't take that seriously, and neither should you (that would be you reader), as I am a raving sentimentalist/romantic who needs to get a grip on my reality (my reality being that I have less than $100 in my banking account, my new jeans are still a little snug, and it looks like traveling Europe won't happen until after I've done something moderately respectful). The curse could very well break as soon as I find a Chipotle, Barnes and Noble, movie theater, Anthropologie, Hogsmeade, and Gamestop all in one strip plaza.

I just got back from the leasing office, breaking my first lease, deviating from my norm of staying put for one year in the same place. I had thought this year I might be able to break my curse, and finally settle down and have the same zip code for two consecutive years. I was pretty confident this would be the case, but then I didn't get into grad school like I'd arrogantly thought I'd be able to.

Hence, the job search. And now, I'm going to Publix for the umpteenth time in my life to ask for extra boxes.

P.S. I finally added chapters to the novel. I have eighteen of them. Hoorah.