OK, I am officially freaked out.



I'm moving in two days. I've spent the last day dismantling my beloved apartment in Capitol Hill, with its scuffed hardwood floors, leaded glass, arched entryways. The beautiful top-floor apartment with a view of Mt. Rainier that sheltered me when you-know-who booted me onto the street. The apartment that embraced me as I grew from lost, heartbroken soul to kickass author babe.



And now what am I doing to it? I'm disemboweling it! I'm reaching into its innards and scooping them out! Pulling coffee cups and first-aid kits and boxes of old birthday cards out of closets. Little pieces of string and maxi-pads and single earrings that have long been missing a mate. Putting everything out for embarrassing, gaudy display that was so nicely hid for two years in my apartment's five spacious closets (my new condo has a grand total of ONE closet)!



When I finally do move it all, the scars will be left behind. Oh the poor hardwood floor! There will be long scratches from my furniture. Water stains from my plants. The spots on the bookshelves that I burned with candles. The holes in the walls.No doubt my landlord will lasso all my deposit, but still, I can't help but feel sorry for the apartment that loved me, and who I loved back but abused in so many ways.



And now I'm leaving it. Because I'm an "adult," apparently. With a condo in lower Queen Anne that has a dishwasher AND a washer/dryer! But I will dearly miss this shabbily elegant place, this bittersweet home that saw so much drama. So many tears and so many loney nights and so many strange boys!



Goodbye little apartment.