An Itch to Scratch.

I hate moving. 

I haven’t even had to do it that much yet and I already hate it. 

The last two times I moved it was just across town.  I could make, like, five trips in a row with my little car and if I forgot something, it was no big deal.  I’d just drive back one more time and get the thing I needed.

When I moved to Santa Cruz I really only needed to worry about my clothing.  So it was more like packing for a really long vacation than actually moving.

This time I have to get all my shit four hours away.  And it’s four of the most painfullying boring fucking hours of driving I think I’ve ever experienced consecutively.

An hour of four-lane highway with a giant center divider between them.  Sometimes there are grungy buildings on the side of the highway.  At one point there are train tracks and every so often there is a train on them.  Okay, more often than not a train seems to be on them.  But the best thing about the train is the graffiti on it, which is not so great because I like to look at the graffiti and it distracts me from driving.  Then I realize I’m moving and the train is moving and it’s pretty much all I can do not to yak on my steering wheel.  Stupid motion sickness.

There are some trees and bushes on the side of the road and in the center divider, too.  Not nice ones.  But, still.  It’s not like I have high expectations for the aesthetic appeal of the Stockton/Modesto area.  I have high expectations for the Mexican food and smell of manure. 

I think the most annoying part of this move is that I can’t wait until I get to move again…  To somewhere fabulous.  Like San Francisco, maybe. 

I know you’re wondering why I’m moving somewhere I don’t seem to want to live; I’m stuck moving to a Podunk town in an area I hate for school.  My theory is that I will get out of there faster because I don’t want to be there.  That’s good incentive, right?

This is the point at which I start begging God to let me become an amazing singer at this school so that I can sing with a major opera company and become more famous than Joan Sutherland (may she rest in peace).  

In other news, my side itches like crazy.  It's mostly done peeling, thank goodness.  But it's still tender-ish and healing.  Someone smacked it as a joke last night.  I think it was supposed to hurt, but, since I can't scratch the tattoo, it felt fucking amazing.  I guess it's a good think I have fair skin and was therefore forced to learn how to cope with sunburns, or I could not handle getting tattoos.

Happy Hump Day, all!