So, I hate moving.

I spent another night sorting through my belongings, and preparing to pack them all up. Of course by "sorting" and "preparing," I mean "throwing" and "away."

It's unbelievable the amount of unnecessary paraphernalia a person can collect in 24 years. Scratch that. It's unbelievable the amount of unnecessary paraphernalia a person can collect in six months. That's how long I've lived in my apartment. Six months ago I went through this exact process, and was convinced I threw every last waste of space away.

But no, not true.

I think I've actually just become less sentimental. My new philosophy: If I haven't had any use for it in six months, it's gone. Which has come in rather handy. Last night's casualties included old VHS tapes, horrible CDs, 97 percent of my silverware, a warped bathroom shelving unit, a coconut decorated in the likes of a pirate (don't ask). Also now part of the permanent fixture of trash in the parking lot are: old photo albums (most photos removed), a scrapbook I spent my entire spring break crafting during my senior year of college from a vacation I took with a boyfriend I should've dumped when I discovered he was an engineer, a stack of Runner's World magazines that proved useless once I stopped running, and Gerard, sweet Gerard - who never recovered after the attempt on his life (Harley's next. Juuust kidding).

I packed up my DVD player, VCR and Nintendo 64, as well. Which means for the next week-and-a-half, I'm literally living in a cave. All I have for entertainment value is electricity. And running water.

I sleep on an air mattress and my refrigerator is empty. After next week, I'll be crashing on the futon of a friend, living out of a laundry basket. The Cats will be plotting my death, which will likely include each the following: catnip, projectile vomit and grenades (they're crafty, those two).

I am so excited.