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Helped my friend Blue move into her new apartment yesterday, which was an all-day affair. It seems that most people think that helping someone move is a huge favor. For me, it’s just hanging out with friends while you happen to be doing some physical activity. Then again, I moved seven times in a span of five years, so perhaps I’m just used to it. I love lifting heavy objects. I just hate having to navigate around sharp corners and through finger-crushingly narrow entryways.
Also, dealing with objects that aren’t really heavy, but awkwardly shaped, is a pain. I’ve got a nice bruise and minor laceration from carrying a (full) filing cabinet. To keep a grip on it, I had to squeeze one of the edges against my bicep. And the more I squeezed, the more the muscle flexed, and the harder the edge pressed into it.
Blue: Jesus, Mike… are you okay?
Me: What? Oh, that. Yeah, I’m fine.
Blue: [smirking] Oh, that’s right. You like marks.
Hey, a little pain never hurt anybody, right?
Sometimes I miss apartment living. Much less to worry about, and if the place pisses you off or you decide you don’t like it… you get another one. But then I remember why houses are awesome. In my first apartment here in Atlanta, the front door had a gap even when it was closed, and I’m fairly sure the seven-year-old neighbor kids used to watch… certain activities that went on in the living room from time to time.
I remember one time in particular when my partner was getting rather loud, and I heard some muffled gasps and high-pitched voices from the hallway. The next day, one of the neighbor’s kids asked me if I was hurting that girl that was over. I opened my mouth, meaning to say, “No, we were just wrestling,” or something to that effect. Instead, what came out was, “Yeah, but she liked it.”
Do you ever have cases of the filter dropping at inappropriate times like that?
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