Long story short: we packed three people's worldly possessions into a sixteen-foot Penske, drove 800 miles, and unloaded everything in a couple hours. I slept on my own mattress last night, on the floor of a small third bedroom in my friends' new Logan Square apartment. The three of us are experiencing more-than-minor pain after the extreme driving and lifting of the past few days. Needless to say, we're walking funny.
Twenty-four hours after arriving at the place, it's still mostly a mess, but starting to show signs of homeyness. The futon is upright. The bathroom has soap. My computer is on a desk, using magical internet. It's nice, but not perfect. Not yet. It's not my house. Soon I will have one, and it will be glorious.
The word of the day is overwhelmed. Between apartment-searching, job-hunting and starting/finishing up some freelance work, there's a lot to worry about. But I have pizza in my belly and the sun is shining, so all is right in the world. For now.
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