Please wipe your feet.

So I got the keys to a new apartment today.

Insert collective "yessssssss" here.

It's small, quite quaint, and fabulous. I'm pretty pumped about this situation in its entirety.

It's certainly no hoity-toity apartment complex like I currently live in. With its gorgeous pool, exercise room, freshly painted walls, nice landscaping... Oh, crap. I'm depressed.

OK, so it's not that bad. But it's, uh, got character. It's older. Downtown. With wooden floors. Small. But I've got three windows, which must count for something. And a ceiling fan. Awesome. A ginormous closet. Does it matter that the building stands in the middle of a decrepit parking lot? Nah. It's about two steps from the YMCA, and therefore rope burn, and another two steps from my job. So, two points for location!

I fully intend on making this space my very own. Apparently just like the past 18 apartments I've lived in... Moving is habit. It happens in one-year intervals, as I've once discussed.

So I'm at it again. (Take away that collective "yessssssss" and insert a collective "shooooot," instead).

Meanwhile, I'm currently accepting applications for Moving Help. Got a truck? You're in. Muscles? Get over here. Patience for my whining? Yes, please.

I'll give you beer. I swear.