I think I accidentally already packed this post's title. Oops.

I am deliriously drooling over calmly assessing the mountain of packed and sealed boxes in my living room after cleaning out the fridge. Staring down my seventh move in two and a half years because, whythaheck not? Let's just punch myself in the boob while I'm at it, because both endeavors seem equally as annoying and painful and so, might as well!

We're just moving apartments, not even towns, and so our new place is not even a 15 minute drive away. But stiiiiiiill. >whine< I hate moving.

It honestly wouldn't be so bad if I had, oh I dunno, kept stuff a little cleaner in our current place this past year. I swear there were moments that I actually picked up a mop and used it occasionally, other than pretending it was a mic while I badly did my own version of 90s karaoke in my underwear. (wow, boobs and underwear all in the same post! And I'm not even drinking! Yet!)

But you really couldn't tell that anyone so much as dusted when you start moving around my furniture. My dust bunnies have their OWN dust bunnies. It's gross.

We're doing the best we can, though. Magic Eraser has become my new best friend, and I'm considering taking Mr. Clean out for dinner when this is all said and done. I mean, it's the least I can do after what HE'S seen lately.

We move our furniture next week and then the seventh circle of hell unpacking commences. Pray for me. Hard.

They even charge for pictures and autographs, too.

Hubby and I currently live in a third world country, but are contemplating and preparing for a move back to the United States fairly soon. Our reasons for such a move are many, one of which being my tummy. Since this is a third world country, there are the occasional critters such as amoebas and parasites that you can accidentally consume from your food, no matter how careful you may be or that your second-highest bill is BLEACH. BLEACH EVERYTHING. AHHHHH.

Aherm.

The reason for my psychotic earnest interest in this is because the little critters in this country haven't been so nice to me. While my husband can practically drink the tap water here, with a slight growl from his innards being the only reciprocation for such a heinous act, sometimes it feels like if I so much as LOOK in the direction of some "street" food sold here, my intestines start having seizures while simultaneously doing back-flips and breathing fire.

I considered having my intestines join the circus with their obvious talent for such things, but the ring master took one look at them and said, "Can they also walk the tightrope?" And that's when my intestines stormed out shouting something about not appreciating great talent and demanding a double-shot latte with hazelnut foam, because THAT IS HOW MY INTESTINES ARE. DRAMATIC.

Let's put it this way...while I live in the land that is nicknamed "Volcano Alley", the only active volcano I've experienced lately is the one coming from my rear end. Mount St. Helens ain't got nothing on THIS.

Thought you'd get to have a cocktail or a little dinner with me first before getting to know me this intimately, did you?

Sorry, I'd love to, but my intestines are on the phone with their agent, and well, it's not you, IT'S THEM.

So, you got any disgusting interesting information you'd like to blast into the black hole of the Internet?