For three days now, I’ve been packing up my life and depositing it, box by box, back in Green Valley. Tomorrow seals everything– the landlord and I go through the inspection and I hand over the keys and wave a casual, tear-free good-bye to Anthem.
All satisfactory goodbyes such as this one, of course, should have some sort of ceremonial ritual. And so I hearken back to another experience which was marked by a "Good-bye? More like good riddance!" feeling: high school, where we could publish our good-byes in the school newspaper via "Senior Wills," or, as the journalism class’ resident cheerleader wrote on the advertising poster (the cheer teams had, after StuCo, the best poster-making supplies), "Senoir Wills." Our journalism teacher smoothly shrugged it off– "It’s French," she would explain to those who questioned it (and a good majority believed her).
And so, being (still) of hidden body and crouching mind, I leave the following pieces of words of… something:
To the people at Home Depot: Thank you for being open at 6 a.m., and thank you for being so nice about getting me adequate supplies for fixing the holes I left in my walls. Even though I was wearing gym pants and a tank top and a crabby expression.
To the chick who bought my couches: Man, you’re a bitch. At first I thought you were just having a bitchy moment when we talked on the phone yesterday (and even then, you pissed me off because what right did you have to be a bitch to ME just because I informed you that other people were trying to buy these couches? I don’t know you, I had no obligation toward you, and considering the fact that you were trying to get something FROM me– look, I don’t know what you do for a living, but when it comes to responding to classifieds, being a bitch really doesn’t help you get what you want), but when I met you this morning, you totally confirmed your all-around, 24-hours-a-day, full-time bitch status. I feel sorry for your roommate, who seems the type to let people, especially women, walk all over him. However, thank you for being such a grand and overbearing bitch, because you subsequently made me feel a whole lot better about myself. I wish all my ex-boyfriends could meet you so that I could say to them, "SEE? You complained that I was a lot to put up with, BUT SEE WHAT ELSE IS OUT THERE? I’m an ANGEL compared to her!"
Oh, and waiting until the couches were already loaded into your trailer before having your roommate offer me less than the agreed selling price? I bet you put him up to that. The poor sap. And you probably chewed him out for not hassling me more after he got into the car and told you that I refused to back down from my price. Such a bitch.
To my couches: I’m sorry I sent you away with that bitch. But maybe she’s nicer to furniture than she is to people.
To the indoor house walls: Thanks for, um, you know, keeping the roof up and all. I had fun fixing your holes, and believe me, if I hadn’t been so pressed for time, I would have loved nothing more than to just start drilling more holes into you, just so I could keep spackling and painting.
To the air conditioning here in the GV house: Why aren’t you working? You make Kipper overheat and I don’t think my plants are too pleased with this change in climate. Not to mention you make sleeping very uncomfortable. Work, dammit!
To my former roommate: You suck and you’ll be lucky if you get any of your security deposit back. Do you not understand the process of moving OUT? Contrary to what you obviously believe, moving out includes moving ALL of your belongings, as well as all of your trash, OUT of the house. It also includes CLEANING, something which you not only failed to do upon moving out, but which you clearly never did while you lived in that house. Because, oh-my-god, your bathroom was disgusting. I don’t understand how a person who showered practically twice a day could have such a filthy shower tub, but buddy, you managed it. And you may have had a toilet brush next to your toilet (I know this because you left it there, along with a caddy that took way too much effort to get off the shower head and a really dirty bathmat), but did you ever USE it? Like, with a TOILET BOWL CLEANER? I’m going to go ahead and answer for you with a resounding NOPE.
And thanks for leaving all your shit on your bedroom floor even though I’d been telling you for over a week that the carpets were going to be cleaned on Wednesday afternoon. Not to mention never vacuuming, even though you’re the one who brought the vacuum into the house. Oh, and I guess I should also express my gratitude for your leaving your ugly window blinds behind, still drilled into the window frame. And speaking of windows– what the fuck did you do to your window screen? I didn’t even know it was possible to bend something that way. I sincerely hope you’re living alone now, because to inflict your presence upon someone else is just unnecessary torture. Then again, if you do have another roommate, I hope that roommate is ten times worse a roommate than you are. And I hope that roommate has a dog that pees not only on your bed, but on you, because that would so totally rock.
To Cox high-speed internet: I love you. No, really, I mean it. I love you. I think we could be together for the rest of my life and I would never want for more. I understand that you’re not all about the contractual commitment thing, but I see no reason for why we can’t have an unofficial civil union. Thank you for coming with me back to Green Valley, I can’t begin to tell you how much easier you’ve made this transition for me. Billy Jack, my desktop, which (sigh) is a PC, has never been on a cable internet connection before, but I’m pretty sure that it’ll love you as much as Kipper and I do. I look forward to hooking you two up, just as soon as I get the kinks worked out (again) with my wireless router.
And to whoever owned all those newspapers and kept them in a loose pile outside, which allowed them to fly into my backyard on windy days, which was pretty much every day, which meant I was constantly picking up trash that was never mine to begin with: You should be shot and I hope you go to a hell run by evil, genetically-spliced-and-mutated tuna fish. But only because the hell run by monkeys dressed up in banana suits? That hell’s reserved for me.