I hate moving.

My feet hurt.

My back hurts.

My hands hurt.

My biceps hurt.

My throat hurts.

I can't find my bottle opener.


Next time, I'm going to pay to have someone else move my shit and let their bodies deal with the aftermath.

I hate mice.

I hate when I'm relaxing on my couch, watching a movie, and I spot a mouse making its way from the living room to the kitchen.

I really hate when I scream and run out of the apartment, locking myself out.

And I really really hate when I get the front desk to let me back in, and I'm sitting on my couch, and I see the mouse squeeze under the kitchen door and mosey its way back through the living room to the vent.

The building's "engineer" is on his way. But I stood outside in the dark and the heat, listening to my dad describe different types of mouse traps for half an hour, and the guy is still not here. My dad convinced me it was safe to come back up to my apartment, but I've turned on all the lights and propped my feet up.

Do you know how difficult it is to scream when you've lost your voice?

I hate being 25 (temporarily).

I'm not one of those people who can't stand the idea of getting older. I'm only 25, so that's easy to say to say now, but I'm typically not one to moan about birthdays.

That said, I have never wanted to be a kid more than I did last night when Kelly and I wandered around the 12-block fake Diagon Alley that was set up in Alexandria last night for the release of the last Harry Potter book.

So in other words, I hate being lame.

I hate coughing.

I think I've got the black lung, Pop.


Ugh.

I hate realizing I'm sick right when my plane lands.

Because I lost most of my hearing for a solid 48 hours. And then I got a temperature. And then I starting coughing. And wheezing. And sleeping. And working throughout it all, because I am lame.

At least I wasn't sick in Chicago last weekend.

I hate street performers.

They're quite nice in Once, but when they sit outside the fence of a music festival and play the theme song from The Addams Family on their saxophone repeatedly for an hour, it's not so cute. Especially when you're sitting all the way in the back of the park on blankets (because standing all day in the sun with a few other thousand people just to get "close" to the New Pornographers is for idiots) and the obnoxious saxophone is overpowering the music coming from the stage.

I hate waiting for my couch.

If you've spent any amount of time with me in the past seven months, you'd know that I bought a couch in December. And in March, when it was supposed to be delivered ... well, it wasn't. Thank you, Furniture Store I Will Not Name, for taking my money, failing to deliver the product I paid for, and treating me like shit every time I called to ask where my fucking couch was. I canceled the order.

I ordered another couch. A prettier couch. A more expensive couch. A modern-looking couch. A couch that will probably clash with all my inherited ancient furniture. And it should be here by the end of next week, which is awesome, because, you know, I'll be in Chicago at the end of next week. Not in D.C. With my couch. My beloved couch. With a foldout bed, for those of you who care for those sorts of things, a foldout bed!

Couch, when you get here, I will love you forever. And so will Kelly. Believe me, so will Kelly.