Moving house or apartment isn’t just a “task.” It’s a modern-day endurance trial disguised as an act of personal growth, or just a sign that a few hundreds years ago you would have failed that “survival of the fittest” thingy. Somewhere between the first box and the fifth nervous breakdown, you’ll realize that sedentary civilization was a mistake and that minimalists might be onto something. But since you’re already knee-deep in cardboard and regret, let’s walk you through the process of relocating your miserable stack of possessions from one overpriced dump to another.
Step 1: The Grand Delusion (a.k.a. Planning)
It starts with optimism. You convince yourself that this time will be different. First of all, “that new place is great, alright?” Also you’ll definitely plan ahead, label boxes, color-code rooms, organize cables, put screws in Ziploc bags and tape them on the thing they’re holding together. You’re not gonna wing it like last time where you didn’t have the key on move day. You buy a silly notebook just for “moving notes,” as if you’re gonna take any, but apparently office supplies is how you trick yourself into thinking your life’s under control, and you tell everyone you’re “starting early,” which in moving terms means you’ll begin panicking two weeks before the date instead of one.
You’re basically dead set on becoming that mythical creature known as “a functioning adult,” which is cute, except you’re not fooling anyone but yourself. You call movers for quotes, realize you could buy a used car for that price, and decide to do it yourself. You picture a quaint day of teamwork with friends, laughter echoing through the empty rooms, but reality will soon crush this fantasy like a sofa on your toes.
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Step 2: The Purge of Personal History
First comes the “decluttering phase,” which sounds therapeutic but quickly devolves into existential horror. You unearth relics from your past: unpaid bills, tragic fashion experiments, cables that connect to no known device. Every drawer is a museum of failure whose only permanent exhibition is your pathetic life.
But you start strong, tossing things out with righteous fury. “I don’t need this!” you declare proudly, but after ten minutes, sentimentality creeps in… That chipped mug? It reminds you of a summer where you almost had your life together. That shirt you hate and makes you look like a cheeto? It was expensive. That IKEA manual? Well, what if you someday need to reassemble the bookshelf you left at your ex’s flat?
Eventually, you’ve managed to throw away exactly three items: an expired loyalty cards, a sock with a hole and a belt that is now too small for you. The rest stays. You’ll just move it all again. You always do.
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Step 3: Boxing Day, Every Day
You now face the Sisyphean task of packing. It begins rather innocently with some tape, a box, maybe some light swearing and the beginning of an existential crisis. Then, thirteen hours later, you’re sitting cross-legged among towers of cardboard and furniture taken apart, calling your roll of bubble wrap “Wilson” and talking to it like it’s your only friend.
No matter how methodical you are, you’ll end up with boxes labelled “Miscellaneous,” which is adult code for “I gave up.” You’ll also grossly underestimate the number of boxes required. You’ll think, “Twenty will be plenty!” and by the end of day 1, you’ll have used forty-seven and your duffel-bag from that weekend you considered going to the gym.
And then there’s the physical part, hauling them around. Each box mocks you and your sickly frame. You’ll lift one labelled “Books”, feel your spine poke your tailbone, and you’ll swear you’re done collecting books. But you’re not and within a week you’ll buy another one that you’ll never read because it’s aesthetic.
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Step 4: Moving Day, The Reckoning
It has finally arrived… You wake up early and start the day full of false confidence and cheap coffee. You’ve got the van booked, your future former friends bribed with lukewarm beer and cold pizza, and a playlist designed to “keep morale high.” You’ve planned everything and, as such, everything falls apart within the hour.
One of your friends just woke up and will be two hours late, another one has an ear infection and won’t come at all. The lift is broken and so is your soul. A stray dog decides to guard the hallway like a furry Cerberus and Woo, the neighbor’s cat, decided to pee on your rug. You drop a box marked “Fragile,” and it makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like your future therapy bills. You begin shouting logistics like a battlefield commander who’s lost control of their troops. “That one goes upstairs!” “Where’s the screwdriver?!” “Who packed paint with the towels?!” By midday, the playlist of upbeat songs feels like mockery, you haven’t eaten, your hands are shredded from tape, and the van smells like despair and stale chips.
Eventually, everything’s moved. You look around your new flat, a labyrinth of boxes, dust, shattered dreams, and mutter, “We did it.” But you didn’t, my sweet summer child. You’ve merely relocated chaos.
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Step 5: The Settling Delusion
You think the hard part’s over? Think again, you twit, because unpacking is a fresh circle of hell. You open one box, then another, then remember you have fifty more. You tell yourself you’ll do it “gradually” only to live out of boxes six months later and never hanging that one last painting of a lousy landscape that your ex found “charming” but not charming enough to take with them when they dumped your sad face years ago.
The first night, you can’t find your pajamas, your toothbrush, or your will to live. You make a bed out of coats, eat semi-rancid Pringles for dinner, drink your own tears from a measuring jug because all the cups are buried under your bad decisions and also because the water from the tap is weirdly brown. You try to lighten the mood by browsing the web but it won’t connect because someone forgot to announce their move to their provider. Days later, as you finally manage to hang your clothes, you find a mysterious cable again, the same one from the last move. You still don’t know what it does, but you can’t throw it away because “who knows when you’ll need it.” It’s basically a tradition at this point.
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Step 6: Reflection (and Regret)
Weeks later, the trauma fades. You’ll talk about the move like a war story. You’ll boast about how “smooth” it went, omitting the part where you cried into a pizza box at 2 a.m. You’ll give friends advice on how to “stay organized,” conveniently forgetting that you lost your passport for four months only to find it in a shoe box after already applying for a new one.
And you’ll say “Never again,” but that playground under your windows is actually louder than you expected so you will do it again and again, every few years, because you have the criteria of a picky billionaire but you and your master’s in social studies will never be able to afford it.
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Conclusion
Now what did we learn from this? Well I’m glad you asked, my little twit. We learned that moving isn’t about logistics, it’s not about finding a better home, or about “finding yourself”, whatever that means. It’s about confronting your own madness one roll of duct tape at a time. It’s an exercise in resilience and fortitude, and you failed. Now that this is sorted, take a deep breath, you oaf, and embrace the chaos. You’re not just moving, you’re transporting your entire collection of bad decisions across postcodes.
Alright, off you go, you lumpsucker, and don’t forget to label the box with your dignity. It’s the tiny one over there, next to the organic trash bin. You’ll never find it otherwise.
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