Everyone I know is moving.

Which is fine! I’m not jealous. I don’t even want to move, I don’t even like it. I couldn’t be bothered to have a blank new canvas for which to decorate. Or want that ghastly uncomfortable period where everything seems new and feels different and even the things you’ve had for years suddenly are crisp and current again. Of course I do, of course I could be bothered.

Even the worst part about moving is still kind of sweet. Everyone suffers together. You get to meet your neighbors in the most organic way possible. You look worn and disgusting and so does everyone else. It fosters solidarity. And at the end of it: you collapse in some common area, admire all the hard work you did, run various decoraing scenarios and DIY projects in your head, reflect on all your experiences from last year, entertain the possibilities the new lease year has to offer and joke around with your friends who came and ended up being only marginally useful compared to the work they promised they’d help you do.

And this year, that’s where I come in. I’ve promised three friends that I’ll be helping. I doubt I’ll be as helpful as I said I would and it’s not because I don’t love them enough. It’s because I’m bitter and resentful.

But I’ll go out and buy beer and entertain.

And then, when I come home later tonight to the very same dwelling, I’ll softly cry and convince myself that I am entering a period of personal stagnation.