exaggerations

Well, I'm home.

.

my mom is menopausal, thermostat set at a constant 52

refusing to acknowledge my room looks like this

I spent my day throwing all my things into the hallway to deal with later. My goal was to get my room empty. And let me tell you, I did a good job.

our ex- heaters and windows

my ex-bed

my ex-closet

our ex-view

I was having some good sentimental, nostalgic, deep inner moments with myself. And then I walked outside and realized what I had done.

oh ^&$%#

I have issues with thinking about the consequences of my actions, like not having any boxes would be the action. And the consequence would double as another action which was me being overly confident in my abilities to carry multiple things down four flights of steps, which would result in the consequence (which is really a double consequence as it follows the double-action as stated above) of things falling, mousse rolling underneath cars, headbands flying down staircases, etc.

After the twelfth trip down the steps taking my things and leaving them to just sit outside my car because I have this deep-seeded drive to pack everything perfectly like my dad taught me but unfortunately the dresser (more on this later) was at the bottom of my pile so everything else had to be taken out first, I finally had two mirrors, a few vases, my running shoes, and two baskets full of random and probably unnecessary crap.

Clearly all that can be taken in one trip.

BUT. 

My RA tells me there is a freight elevator. And she has the key. And I can use it. THANK YOU MOVING-OUT GODS.

So I'm rock star-rolling my dresser through the hallway to the freight elevator and stick that key in like a champ. I'm almost done!

I get in the elevator and then I get a bad feeling.

'

partly because the elevator was scary

wait, the door may not open? i don't understand the emergency instructions!

The door thankfully opens and I push my dresser out. The wheels catch on the rug and everything topples over. 

The mirrors.

My flowers.

My vases!

A million pieces.

I hear a voice. Thank goodness, someone will come and save me. I turn and see him.

Oh no.

It's HIM. The faculty member that has always given me the willies. We will call him Johnny for safety purposes. Johnny thinks I am funny, real funny. He thought my recent Toilet Talk idea of putting a word search in it was pure genius, and has told me countless times:

clever at best

He at one point touched my shoulder three times during a ten-minute encounter with him. I both counted and timed this encounter. 

Needless to say, I would have rather dealt with this on my own.

I bent down to start picking up the glass.

Something stung.

I look down.

OH &*^*$#

I look up at him. It is just me, Johnny, broken glass, my bloodied hand, and my underwear drawer. He begins sorting through my things. Go ahead, Johnny. Take a thong too. I've got some good Christmas ones somewhere in there. I run to the bathroom and begin to clean my gushing wound. Something inside snaps.

I AM GOING HOME. NOW.

 I come back out, and Johnny is trying to make me laugh but I don't hear him. I stomp to a closet and find a cart and put all my belongings on it, covering everything with blood because apparently my right hand is the popular place for every red blood cell in my body to hang out. Johnny mentions something about Toilet Talk. The cart sounds like a semi trying to slam on its breaks so it doesn't hit a small child. Everyone stares at me pushing the cart through the admin offices, with a bloody tourniquet and an assumingly horrifying look on my face. 

Due to my white-hot determination and my suffocating discomfort about being around Johnny, the rest is a bit fuzzy. My first memory was my throbbing hand. 

whitney + minor wounds = exaggerated stories and unnecessary complaints

So anyways I have made it a point to tell every person I see about my story. Awareness must be raised about freight elevators and unrealistic load-carrying optimism; about vases and about Johnny!

Do you see it? It's right next to the atom looking at it under a microscope

You're my friends too, so I had to tell you. Happy first few days of summer. I'll be taking it easy and may have to become ambidextrous if this doesn't get better soon.

And yes, I had to look up how to spell ambidextrous. The trauma is clouding my writing abilities.

Fight the power.