Finished moving.  I would like to thank the triptych of moving saints: humidity, rain, and traffic, for making this a memorably exhausting day.   I would like to think moving 4 times in 4 years keeps a man humble of his station and honest about his possessions.

The irony of signing my lease on 9/11 was unknown to me until my pen lifted from the paper.   My building teems with young people. At times, it seems like an NYU dorm, probably because it is actually full of NYU students, some of whom moved in concurrently wearing purple NYU tshirts.   Memories of waiting in line, with a moving bin full of miniature furniture, wash over me.

On my first night, I smashed my lamp against the wall. Correction, a box of my possessions fled from my hand, slid across another box, and thrust itself towards the lamp.   The floor lamp keels over into the wall; the light bulb shatters.  That lamp is my only source of light.   Darkness everywhere, broken glass below my feet, happiness pervades.

I decide to borrow a lamp from the common living room for just a moment.  Surely my two new roommates will not mind.   I pick up the floor lamp, and the shaft breaks free from the base.   Lovely.   I carefully re-insert the lamp pole into the lamp base.  I then pick up the floor lamp by the base.   The lower base, which appears to be made of heavy plaster and clay,  crumbles and disintegrates.  The floor lamp, that belongs to my new roommates, just shat all over the floor.  I have made a splendid mess.

I scrawl out a note on a paper towel, promising to clean it up in the morning, and crawl into bed, hoping no shards borne of my own clumsiness poke me in the ass.

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