For days I have felt inert. I’m getting some stuff done, including some reading and thinking, and I’ve washed and dressed every day and cleared the dishes. However, I just feel apathetic and sloth-like.

I know part of my problem is the perceived immensity of what I have to do in order to move — Get rid of shit, fix my place to rentable condition, not fuck my budget, get into and through the holidays, pack the junk I want, figure out what the fuck kind of job I want, find such a job 3,000 miles away, remember to focus on making positive, life-affirming steps, try to launch myself into freelancing or otherwise using my apparently not completely sucky communication skills (although the phrase “not completely sucky” does call that assertion into question) and, finally, physically transport my self and some belongings without having my heart explode from free-floating anxiety.

Sometimes it just seems like too much work to do what I think is necessary and beneficial, and it’s hard not to just cave and stay where I am and continue in my secure little rut.

Adding to all of the neurotic juice I can squeeze on my own is the actually funny prank that I’ve been living through with some comedy buds. It was pretty public knowledge when M. left for the left coast, especially since he stopped coming out with me to clubs and what not. Among my friends it’s pretty obvious that he’s a nice, digable guy with whom I would want to stay in touch. So, the discussion of my moving came up pretty quickly about a year ago when M. manifestdestinied.

Since losing my job, the talk of my moving has risen exponentially, and I’ve talked about it since I’m ready to shake the dust off my staid New England existence and do something the fuck else.

Enter this guy. Not one to miss a good opportunity for some comedic hijinks, he announced here, to the Boston comedy community,that I had already moved. A shitload of people took the bait and for awhile wherever I went, there was surprised recognition followed by “I thought you moved…”

I won’t write about how he upped the ante on that prank, since the little kid in me still believes you can jinx things.

Anyway, as I wander through my days wallowing in my own self-created anxiety, worrying that I will fail to sieze a little gusto in this life, and essentially pussy out*, the pressure from outsiders pretty much throws my whole fucked up, neurotic brain into overdrive.

Imagine how shitty I will feel if I do whimper into the next few decades unable to break the status quo and failing to even approach the buffet table let alone suck any marrow from breathing and surviving. (By the way, I don’t actually ever want to literally “suck marrow.” Just ew.) But, to publically be a complete and total pussy? Not sure if my weak little mind could handle telling all the people who have already wished me luck or congratulated me on my move that I suck.

Anyway, I think the reason for writing all of this shit out is the time table. I never expected I could do everything I feel that I have to do quickly and efficiently. I know myself, I know my problems and I know the immensity of ridding my life of detritus. Generously, and ambitiously, I started out thinking I could get things done some time between the start of the holidays in late November and the completion at the end of the year. Considering two different house fixes I need will require contractors and in the first phase the hired contractor is three-weeks’ overdue, “ambitious” is a kind word for delusional.

Now, I think before I am 41 in the first week of March is a good target (although, I’ll have to make decisions about spending from my savings). Adding the extra time gives me (and perhaps more importantly, M.) breathing room, but it also underscores the haunting apparition of my pussy self and the real or perceived failure of me to get started on a new life.

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*”pussy out” I love this phrase for it’s quasi-dirty, bad junior high connotations. I love it more, because I am theoretically a radical-leaning feminist, and a chick using junior high misogynistic slang is sadly funny to me. However, I think I love it most, because it the metaphor is weirdly meaningless, ’cause to be a pussy means what exactly, that you don’t do anything. Yeah, that makes sense, the sweet little spot that quite a bit of the population drools over is just weak and uninvolved. Empower the phrase today, call a co-worker a pussy.

And, since so many in the American population are apparently religious, please pray that I, Dee-Rob, am not a pussy and that when it comes to moving I don’t “pussy out.”