Seven blocks and a world of noise

It has been too long since the world has gotten to hear about my personal life, and a lot has happened. For the last two weeks or so, my life has been like this: clean new apartment, paint new apartment, clean up after painting new apartment, pack up old apartment, move to new apartment, unpack, clean old apartment.

However, instead of packing LOTS of boxes for the guy I hired to move me to load in his truck, I packed like, two, and thought "I'll just tote my huge massive wheelie duffel back and forth a few times. What the heck, it's only seven blocks!"

2938547439857 trips on sweltering hot days with a heavy, overstuffed duffel later, and I think I'm the dumbest person alive. And I think all of Avenue B has gotten sick of seeing me making that trip three times a day in all of my sweaty glory. I know I'm sick of it.

To add to all the moving trauma, we arrived with the couch on Tuesday and spent almost an hour grunting and wheezing and cajoling, only to finally abandon said couch due to non fitting through the stairway dooredness. I saved the cushions though, so our living room is kind of like a genie's bottle now.

Let's not even start on that trashy club downstairs. I hate it. I hate its thumping bass from 10-4 EVERY SINGLE NIGHT and longer on Sundays. I hate the line outside my door with the gelled guys and their KMart prostitute dates. I hate everything about it. I need someone to buy me heavy curtains, large rugs, and a huge amount of cork to stick to my walls to soundproof them. Any volunteers? Oh, I also need an actual bed to lift my mattress of the ground, which reverbrates with club bass every night.

Or maybe just a lifetime supply of sleeping pills. The threat of addiction means nothing to me, if it means I can sleep every night.