these go to 11.

I only have a few more months here.  

My uncle’s baseball team is playing in a tournament in Chicago on March 31.  Do you want to get lunch? he asked over Christmas.  That’s my last day in my apartment.  By then I’ll be living out of a suitcase. I’ll have a one way plane ticket. ORD-LGA.

But sure, lunch sounds fine.  I can’t imagine where my head will be at that time. I don’t have family here, so when they visit, the city feels a little bit more like a place where I have real roots.

I’ve lived in this city since 2005, in this apartment since 2006.  I’ve permeated this place; I have too many things.  Rather than put everything into storage, I’m just going to leave my door unlocked for all of February and March and invite people to rob me via neon tagboard signs posted at high traffic local intersections.  ROBBABLE APARTMENT. Take my couch, my kitchen table, my pans, my zester, my coat tree.  Take the 15 hoodies that say NOTRE DAME on them that I no longer wear.  Take the pointy toed business shoes and the desk covered with crap and the lamp and the empty wall sconce.  Just fucking take it.  I don’t want to deal with it anymore.

My mother is coming in the middle of March to take my cat, the kitchen table, the chairs.  

Having a lot of stuff makes you feel heavy.