I have come to believe that moving within Manhattan is a lesser known form of torture employed by the United States Justice Department and the CIA. You take your entire life, which is carefully composed into about 150 square feet, try to pack it up into a minimal number of boxes, then figure out exactly how to get it from one end of the island to the other. Torture.
I am currently making my way through this arduous process, and wondering when The New Yorker editorial staff will show up at my apartment to expose this cruel form of punishment to the general public. I, Ashley Harrell, am freaking out.
A delivery of boxes were delivered to me on Monday morning and have been contently nesting in the corner of my living room, awaiting their contents (which are currently sprawled out on my bedroom floor). I am in the process of deciding what exactly I am keeping and what I will throw away. It’s funny to dig through things I moved out here that I haven’t touched once in the last year. Can you BELIEVE I’ve been here for nearly a year!? In the middle of this process, I have also been loaded up with a huge project at work, performed in and worked at the Del Close Marathon, been performing with Nudists in Love, rehearsing for improv, working at UCB, and trying to get my new apartment ready for the move. I am heading over there today after work to paint my bedroom (bluish gray) and stain my new platform bed (dark brown).
It cracks me up as I look at Marcel lounging on my bed and I wonder if he has any idea what is in store for this weekend. That’s right, only three days until the big M-O-V-E. Alphabet City, here I come.