Midweek Musings 004.
Moving Mayhem. Cue the Ari Lennox when I finally relax.
Welcome to Midweek Musings, where I take the random, chaotic, and occasionally profound thoughts from my journal and throw them into the void (aka your inbox). Think of it as a peek inside my brain — except I’ve filtered out the truly unhinged stuff (you’re welcome).
Some musings will be deep, some will be ridiculous, and some will make you wonder if I should get more sleep. Either way, I felt like they needed to be shared, and now they’re your problem too. Enjoy!
Last week’s edition:
By the time this goes up on March 19th, I will have already had two or three cups of coffee and will be actively moving mine and my boyfriend’s belongings into our new apartment. I feel excited — I haven’t lived with a partner since January of 2021 and in all honesty…I’m a whore for that domestic shit. But in like a woke way, you know? Luckily, this time I am living with a partner who actually believes that men should clean too…I don’t think my ex completely comprehended that this wasn’t a one way street when it comes to cleaning.
I don’t just clean for anyone. In late 2023, I briefly dated a man whose bedroom smelled like it belonged to a teenage boy. I remember one day I told him that his room reminded me of my brother’s room because of the way it smelled. He just said “damn” and kept it pushing. In truth, I have to admire how unbothered he was by my statement. I strive to be that committed to my authenticity, even if I’m just authentically stinky. This experience reminded me of why I always date older, even though that also has its outliers (like the ex mentioned in the first paragraph…lol).
Since August of 2018, I have moved a total of 10 times. I moved to Hawaii the day after my 18th birthday. I was newly accepted to Hawaii Pacific University, fresh out of foster care, and excited to finally be able to experience the world the way I always felt like I was meant to. I was terrified. I’d just quit my first job after only two months, I didn’t know how to open a bank account, I didn’t know how to switch my insurance from Tricare east to west, and I only had $80 to my name. But I made it work and after six months, I was a pro at this adult shit. I wasn’t, actually, but it sure felt like it. I had a bank account, I finally had a job as an temporary office assistant at a law firm in Downtown Honolulu, and I had successfully switched my insurance after a tearful phone call with a representative who was very patient and understood I was essentially just a baby.
I want to stay in this apartment for at least two years. I know that different and better opportunities always come up and that there is a possibility we could move again next year but that is my hope. Moving all the time is so exhausting. I just want something to feel like a real home for a little bit. I don’t think I’ve felt that way since I lived alone in 2021 and 2022. Having roommate drama the last two years has taken such a toll on my mental health — I find myself not coming out of my room much, if at all. In this house, it’s a little hard to want to be out of my room in the first place because of how dirty it is; I would at least like to have a choice. Or even to feel like I have one.
For the first time since 2020, I am moving with someone which means I have a lot more help than I did the last few times I moved. Moving from Hawaii to Las Vegas was a different breed of stressful — a majority of my books are still safe and sound at my friend K’s house. Which reminds me I need to send her some money so she can finally ship them to me after almost a year. I hope she’s gone through them more time than she’s asked; she always has permission and they deserve to be read.
I’m excited to decorate my space. I haven’t done much decorating in the last five places I’ve lived in because I either never really knew how long I would be there or I knew I would only be there for a few months. What’s fun is that this whole space is ours and there will be no hints of other people and their individual interests and aesthetics. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate other people’s individuality just…maybe not in my living space. Does that sound bitchy? Whatever.
I grew up living with other people, so I’m used to having to accommodate other people and be mindful that I’m sharing communal spaces with them. In April of 2012, I started living in a cult disguised as an orphanage (long story, but it’s fun to lore drop with no context) so not only did I spend four years sharing a room with another girl, but I was also stuck in a house with 15 girls and 3 adults living there at once. I say this to say that I know how to live with other people. I’m just tired of doing so.
And God KNOWS I deserve some damn peace of mind and the ability to walk around naked.