Please Stand By

I haven't posted in a few days now, and I can sense the rising disquietude.  You've been feeling anxious and on edge lately.  Your spouse/partner/lover/dog/cat/fish have noticed it too.  Everyday you type "www.gefiltefishblues.com" into the address bar -- perhaps several times a day, depending on how boring your job is -- and everyday your heart breaks a little when you see no new postings.  Why did I commit to this, you wonder.  Why did I open up again to another blogger who already found a more productive hobby than blogging, like crocheting or cockfighting?  Damn myself for loving again!  I'll never read another blog as long as I live!

But before you go flushing both your husband and goldfish down the toilet, never fear -- a new story is working its way through the pipeline of my psychotic little brain as we speak.  I'm not one of those fly-by-night bloggers who get your hopes up with wickedly witty insights into the human condition, and then suddenly disappear into oblivion without so much as a goodbye.  You know the type.  They're the heartbreakers of the blogging world.  They give blogs a bad name.

But I'm no heartbreaker.  I'm a master blogger (cue: eye roll at the bad sexual pun), and I'm not going anywhere.  So direct your fear of abandonment towards a more appropriate subject, please.  Might I suggest your father?  That's always worked for me.

That being said, I'm currently in the midst of a major life change.  Of course, given my OCD, almost every change in my life is a major one.  I'm a creature of habit.  It takes several hours of debate and a box of Kleenex to convince myself to throw out an old pair of underwear.  When they discontinued Entenmann's Chocolate Chunk cookies, I needed crisis counseling.  And when my last manicurist told me she was retiring, I tried to bribe her to stay.  I gave her a new pair of cuticle scissors wrapped in old Christmas paper.  She took the gift, but never came back.  Ingrate.

But this one is an actual life change.  I moved apartments on Monday.  My new apartment is fabulous and sure to play host to many exciting events, like the annual I Love Lucy marathon, or the national BDSM convention.  But only after I moved all my crap did I realize that this apartment is four times larger than my old apartment, with four times less closet space.  And that was a fatal error.  I don't need more room to live -- I need more room to store my shit.  Like my eighth grade science fair trophy, when I made cold cream out of sour cream and shampoo.  I didn't win first place, but still, a trophy is a trophy.  Or the faded t-shirt which proclaims that "I rocked out at Jonah's Rockin' Bar Mitzvah!"  I didn't come out of the closet voluntarily.  There was just no room left in there for me.

So I've spent the last two days organizing and reorganizing my stuff into and out of boxes.  Since I refuse to throw anything out -- what if I need my 80 pound first generation laptop with a cracked screen and half of a keyboard again one day? -- I'm currently embroiled in a war against physics and my living space to maneuver my 3000 cubic feet of junk in 20 cubic feet of closet space.  It's me versus the apartment.  I'm going to win, even if it takes a can of gasoline and a match.

Either way, please stay tuned -- I promise to have the next story finished by the end of the week.  Of course, you don't have any recourse if I don't actually deliver.  So this may be just one of those many empty promises that you hear in life, like "you won't feel a thing," or "I do."  But life is pointless without a little faith.  If you can trust your doctor or your spouse, you can trust me.

Ok, I'm off to master blog before bed.  It always makes me sleepy.