So my plans (it seems) keep changing at a rate of roughly once every two and a half minutes. (I'm exaggerating, of course. It's more like three minutes and fifteen seconds.)
Originally, I was planning to take all my stuff out to Boston. All of it. This includes the cheapo folding table I acquired about two years ago, an old dresser that belonged to my grandpa, my short and sad little bed and numerous bookshelves, among other things.
However.
Things have changed.
I now have furniture waiting for me in Boston (woohoo!) which means that I won't have to drive a U-Haul truck out. So then I was going to drive with my dad out in our van, carting boxes & boxes of books and (I hoped) that one really nice bookshelf that I got for Christmas one year (one of the singly most appropriate gifts I ever received).
However, my dad told me today that he thought I should fly out and just have my boxes shipped out to Boston through the Post Office. (Of course, this would mean leaving behind said bookshelves and cheapo folding table and that dresser, but it would be much, much cheaper. I think.)
So, suddenly I'm trying to figure out how many boxes I'll need in order to pack up all the stuff I can't live without (and some stuff I definitely could but don't want to) and how much they'll weigh and which ones I'll be able to send media mail and which ones I decidedly won't be able to and...
My brain is fried. I can't think anymore.
Therefore I must sleep.
But I have a feeling that boxes or packing or flying or all three may be things my subconscious plucks at for dream material tonight.
Oh, goody.
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