Here’s a fucked up thing you might be able to file under irony. Those who know me well (or worse yet knew the invincible Pat) probably have an awareness of packrattedness on my part. As though I grew up in the Great Depression, I have a tendency to hold onto shit, because, like, you never know.

(It’s bad, but not say as bad as my Aunt Mary. You’d go to her house for a snack, and you might get some recycled candy from two Christmas’ ago or maybe a paper napkin with some wrinkles and a couple of past-use spots. But up to 80 percent of the napkin area might be unmarred.)

For the impending move (I can’t fucking believe it’s so close) the mantra has been “Buddhist simplicity.” I wish I could remember the Latin quote of the wonderfully astute Hickey (aka Ghostnut). Something about not really needing anything.

The drill is to just get rid of piles of crap and not look back. I am trying my best to just do that, and it’s more affordable the less I move.

So, M., enterprising entrepeneur extraordinaire, finds a nice man with a three bedroom, two bath HOUSE he’s renting on the cheap. I just talked with the future landlord on the phone, he emphasized the place was “huge” and said that he had no doubt all of the furniture I could bring from Boston would fit with room to spare.

Only, I’m not bringing much (see Buddhist simplicity).

So, I’m uncluttering a 726 square foot, small roomed, two-bedroom life into something that could fit into a closet studio. But, me, I’m transporting it to an echo chamber.

Yeah, baby, new fucking leaves all over the tree.

By the way, as a hacky comedy aside — One of the classic man/woman confrontations, toilet seat up or down or sprinkles on the seat. My solution, don’t fucking argue, but find a place with two toilets. Moving on up, baby, moving on up.