I've come to the conclusion that it's absolutely ridiculous that I have to move at the end of every year, as I am, in fact, not from nomadic stock. My ancestors are not roamers, they're stayers. They're put-down-roots-ers, making me a 'has issues with changing habitations, cannot stop the pathological accumulation of crap, finds it difficult to throw anything away due to the potential sentimental value which I will remember after I've thrown something away even if while contemplating doing that all I can think is that it looks like a crumpled piece of paper' put-down-rootser type.

Right now I am sitting in my room in the dark, and yes, it's a mess in here but it's *my mess*. I love this room. I love where I live right now. I don't want to not live here for three months. I don't want to not live here again. I want to stay right where I am for the duration. Dammit.

I've made a list of the things I have to do today: Number 1) Get over yourself. 2) Boxes: you need them. 3) Place your belongings into these boxes. 4) Seriously? Get over yourself.

Things I have to do by Monday: takethehouse fic and also the kink/cliche fic. Both of these things are fandoms I've never written before. I know I read a lot of different kinds of fic, but really, I'm feeling an overall entrenchment in things that I'm used to right now, and somehow I've created a connection in my mind between writing in new fandoms and packing my room. I can't even explain it to myself. I think it's just because I'm in an utterly miserable mood today. Last night I was fine with the idea of writing both of these things. Today I'm having an over all freak out, and wishing that if packing has to be done a ball of white light would descend from on high and hum celestial music at my things, and then pack them all appropriately and sweep my floor into the bargain.

In conclusion: fuck the sunlight, fuck everything I own, and fuck moving. I hate to move. I hate to pack. I am a ball of hate, and if a ball of white light did descend from on high in my presence, it would probably erupt into flames and run back to on high, whimpering.

Cheer me up by telling me something good. Or something. I don't know. Do a thing. I'm going to be over here, raging against the dying of the light or whatever.