There is something going on and it has nothing to do with Frida leaving ABBA.

I'm moving. My days living a cozy life in 240 square feet are quickly coming to an end. I will be saying goodbye to a studio apartment and hello to a luxurious 480 square foot, one bedroom apartment. Yes, that's right I'm doubling my square footage (240 times 2 equals 480! I know basic math almost as well as a five year old Korean). What am I going to do with all the space? Fill it with emotional baggage and develop a new phobia?

I hope so... {agoraphobia, so it's nice to meet you!}

Seriously though, last Friday I walked past a guy yelling at a bush. He was in the branches of a garden hedge, yelling at it to stop talking back. Then I realized it was one of my neighbors.

But another part of me is sad and a little bit scared to leave this small space I called home for two years. We had some good times (I can't really think of any at the moment but I'm sure we did). Happy and sad all at once, damn estrogen. All this inner turmoil and angst is like living inside a Stephenie Meyer novel. Admitting I read Twilight... just feeling shame now.

Team Edward {via}

 Goodbyes are always hard but packing is worse. I HATE moving. Part of the reason I stayed in this crap shoot was just so I wouldn't have to move again. This will be the sixth apartment in eight years. You'd think I would be good at moving by now, but I'm not. At all.

The worst part of moving is finding weird crap in your apartment. Like when I was moving from Kansas, I swore I found a giant spider's nest behind my dresser. It was huge, gross and I totally did the "OMG that's sicksicksick" spider-dance. Well, it turned out to be a cotton ball that fell behind the dresser and stuck to the wall.

No matter how organized I am about moving, I still come out feeling like the Beverly Hillbillies.

I wish I had a dog {via}