I’m desperate for a new apartment, but the thought of packing up all my stuff and moving it is excruciating. I’ve been in this apartment for seven years and it’s crumbling around me. Seven years is a long time and I have amassed a lot of crap. I’ve wanted to move for so long that I have a collection dust-covered boxes; folded neatly and waiting to fulfill their purpose. When my parents moved, Patty unloaded on me all of the trinkets of childhood she’d been needlessly saving and now I have a four sets of Anne of Green Gables and a six-foot dollhouse to contend with. My refrigerator is so loud it can’t be classified as “white noise” and the freezer doesn’t cool anything on the top shelf. The roof leaks. Bad. I’ve concluded that I cannot fulfill my purpose as a human in this apartment. So, I’m going to move. Any day now.