Today marks my 24th anniversary of life on this planet. Pretty good timing, really, for my birthday to not only land on a Saturday this year (yay! no work!), but also before I take the plunge and head off to graduate school. All the insanity that is my cleaning and packing process has brought me new perspective and insight into my own nature. Whether that's a good thing, I'm not sure. For instance, I spent about an hour today doing some intense packing. In the process, I found a stack of folders, each organized by topic, with some items dating back almost twenty years.

It's not news to me that, in the past, I've been known to find it difficult to let go of things. And it's not that it's so much attaching sentimental value to everything. Quite often, it's an "I don't know what I should do with [insert item here]. I don't need it now, per se, but what if I need it like ten years down the line?" The premise: the only thing worse than having something and not being able to find it is not having it and being fully aware that, at one point in the past, you did have it, but decided to get rid of it.

Of course, there's nothing quite like having to pick up everything and move two states away to motivate one to finally let go of things. I rooted through some of my crap and came to the conclusion that some things aren't worth holding onto. Because who needs old newspaper clippings of opinion articles that date back three years? And instruction manuals for things you no longer own, but found the instructions amusing? Not laugh-out-loud funny, even. Totally corny, more like.

I realize now that, in the past, I found it important to look back and remember, to the detriment of enjoying the moment. Which gives me permission (from myself, you know) to get rid of that which I know I'll never again look at anyway. Okay, that's a lie. If I kept it, I'd look at it again only when I'm once again getting ready to move. Useful.

In conclusion. Number twenty-four brought amazing new, materially, memorially, pictorially, bowling-ly, and lovingly. I couldn't have asked for a better day.

There are those who would argue that I'm a very well-rounded person. With a variety of skills that I employ on a semi-regular basis. But there's one skill for which I possess an astounding lack of talent. That skill is the art of balancing a whole bunch of cardboard boxes up two flights of stairs to my apartment. I'm now in the panic phase of my upcoming move to graduate school. I have a week left, and yet I still have an apartment full of stuff that needs to be packed, be it for storage or transport. A friend was kind enough to donate over half a dozen cardboard boxes for this packing endeavor. When I picked them up from her house, I took a few trips back and forth from the house to the car to put them in. I did this partly because there were so many boxes. And partly because there were only four different size boxes. So stacking them inside one another was not exactly possible. Unless you're Chuck Norris.

Upon my arrival home, I was faced with a dilemma: a bunch of boxes in the car. Two flights of stairs. Not a lot of energy left. I considered leaving them in the car and getting them during the day tomorrow. But then the male hormones kicked in, and I decided Hey! I'm going to carry ALL OF THEM up to my apartment AT THE SAME TIME. Brilliant, I know.

So I pulled them out of the car and stacked them as best I could. One set of boxes was cradled in my left arm. The lone box of enormous proportions was placed precariously atop that stack, and leaned against my head. The final stack was held in my right hand, at a dangerous angle such that it threatened to fall and spill its cardboard contents at any moment.

I made it from the car to the stairs, and began the climb. One step up. A second step. And then, in slow motion, the angled box in my right spilled before my very eyes, even though I wasn't looking because I was too focused on the climb. And then the enormous box of wonder decided to detach itself from my head and go flying to my left and into the awaiting bushes below. Back to the drawing board.

I checked the boxes for signs of any unwanted life forms that may have been intercepted in the fall. They were mercifully devoid of any additional, unwanted, life forms. I repeated the initial failed attempt. And failed again. The sad part is that I was actually surprised by this. Finally, realizing that I had now used up the precious sixty seconds I had intended to save by this balancing act (in fact, I probably added a good 120 seconds to the whole business). I left a bunch of boxes on the second floor and just made an extra trip to get them all upstairs and into my apartment.

I guess I didn't miss my calling as one of those basket-balancing-on-the-head people after all. I'd probably be lynched because I wouldn't be able to supply the village with food. And all the clean laundry would just get dirty. And forget about carrying fruit. I guess I'll just have to face it. I'm no Carmen Miranda.

The writing process is a mystery to me. I'm currently in awe of the fact that I agonized over my letter of intent for graduate school. It seriously took me a solid week to wind up with a draft that didn't make me cringe, much less crawl under a rock and hope that no one ever look me in the eye ever again. But just now, I knocked out a letter of resignation for work in like two minutes flat. I've held a number of jobs, but have never actually had to write such a letter. Strangely, every job I've held ended on my employer's terms. But I've never actually been fired. Just phased out, I guess you'd say. The one job I ever quit was at my old university, where my bosses were such shady mother-fuckers that they would fire the entire student staff and then rehire them, in order to avoid having to pay the 50-cent or one-dollar yearly raise the university required every department to pay its student employees. All I had to do was tell those assholes I didn't want to be rehired. Piece of cake, but I hate them still anyway.

This time, I actually had to write the letter. And because my whole life is in fast-forward at the moment, and because I've never written one of these letters, and because I don't much care how good it is because it's a letter saying that I'm quitting my job, I guess I just don't care how good it actually is. Which works in my favor. Because it's total crap. I didn't even bother putting my employer's address on the letter. Mostly because I figure since I'm handing it in to them in person, it doesn't much matter. But also because, well, I don't care. I didn't find out until the last minute that they needed one of these puppies. So if they don't like it, well, I guess they can fire me.

I wrote it somewhat formally. With paragraphs and everything. And when I use the plural form there, I mean one paragraph followed by a "second" one, consisting of approximately two sentences, that says "Thanks so much for your time." [Now, let's talk about a severance package, even though this is voluntary. You know, sort of as a way of saying "Thanks, Phil, for putting up with all our shenanigans. We know how much shit we put you through, and are so glad that you actually liked your job enough to stay with us. You fucking rule." And then I'll be like "Pay for my education, bitches." And then they won't, and I'll leave anyway.]

I'm glad, at least, that I'm keeping in tradition with leaving jobs in very non-traditional ways. Two weeks notice is for wimps. I got it down to a week. And I'm damn proud.

I wake up refreshed this morning. Feeling all right. Blink the sleep out of my eyes. See the sun shining through the cracks of my window. Stretching. Realize that the sun is not supposed to be shining when I get up for work. Check the time. Shout "Fuck!" out loud when I see that it's ten till eight. Not feeling so all right anymore. Fly into action. Running late, straight up. Amazing speed. Fly out of bed. Make myself presentable (and clean, too). Curse the alarm clock that failed me. Throw a lunch together. Bolt some food and call it "breakfast." Jump in the car and head toward work forty minutes later. Arrive at work. Realize that it's Tuesday, and work on Tuesday starts at 7:fucking30. Um. Oops. My bad?

It was an otherwise uneventful day. But every time this happens to me, the whole day gets thrown off, and trying to get it back on track is akin to attempting to train a gerbil to "sit" on command. As in, it's totally not worth the effort.

Oh well. C'est la vie. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe if I get it a nice lawn chair, the gerbil will actually sit down. Maybe. Better yet, maybe I'll learn not to use bad similes when I blog. Don't hold your breath, though.

The fun never ends, it would seem. I'm having such a blast in my continued effort for acquiring funding for this rather expensive endeavor that is graduate school. Just when I thought I had everything good to go, a quick call to the loan people informs me that, uh, they actually need more. But this time, when they tell me I'm all set they really, really mean it. Like, pinky swear mean it. Maybe I should find a Gideon and make them tell me that in his presence. Because if you've ever tried to lie to a Gideon, you might have found that it's pretty much impossible. And maybe then I could sleep more soundly, comfortable in the knowledge that, at least for this first spring semester, I'll be able to take my classes and not be homeless.

Instead, I'm stuck another day in flux. Waiting. Hoping. And, thanks to having to spend an inhuman number of hours on the phone trying to not die, I've run out of time. No more day phone calls for a few days. Blood-sucking cell phone companies. Damn them.

I'm sure the Gideons would have a proverb to share with me for the occasion. Hopefully nothing as lame as a local church whose marquee recently said "Make your new year's resolution Jesus's plan." Or something to that effect. Don't let me down, Gideons. I'm counting on you.

For some reason, my iTunes queue keeps going back to the speed metal. No matter how much I skip that shit. I'm pretty sure every other song that comes up is DragonForce. Which, had I a few drinks under my belt, might not be such a bad thing. But I'm totally not in the mood to hear super fast songs with titles that include words like 'rampage', 'revolution', and 'fury'. Like, ever. Sort of like how I have no desire to ever again hear that bullshit song Citizen Soldier from the rock and roll traitors. Thank you, I'll do without the propaganda in the movie theaters. At least with the ads they keep playing for the new and improved American "Don't Fuck With Us" Gladiators, it's wholesome, unadulterated, staged violence. I love how everyone for that show has some name that either encourages violence, or else is vaguely patriotic. "Militia" and "Justice" being my two favorites. And then, of course, the one person with a normal name turns out to be a total angry-she's-not-a-lesbian-because-she's-so-fucking-butch Russian chick whose name is, naturally, Helga. I mean, could television possibly get any better than that? I'll say no more, lest I be stating the obvious.

In summary, I'm still fighting a residual cough from the flu. It's back to work tomorrow. Time is running out. California is calling. Stress beckons, but I'm not giving in. This transition still sucks, though. And my neighbor on the other side of my wall is getting annoying, now pounding the wall for some reason. I know it's not me: there's no way you can pound the wall on account of the Silver Jews. No way.

I'm pretty sure I don't have any functioning brain cells left. In fact, I need new frying pans now. Blame here lies, of course, with the impending doom that is graduate school. I'm about to be removed from my comfortable little not-going-to-school life, where I have a good job and get the nights to myself during the week, and into the hotbed that is graduate school in California. Along with the fun and responsibility that comes with school, I have the added bonus of having to pay for school. No easy task, considering my ass is out of state, and I'll be living in California, of all places. Where the cost of living for one year rivals the cost of a mission to Mars.

I've been eyebrows deep in paperwork, online and off, trying to figure out how on earth I'm going to get the money I need to pay for my first semester of school. This might be easier were I starting in the fall, especially because then I'd have a few months to figure things out. Instead, I've got about a week and a half. I guess that's what I get for accepting the offer, and well hey, applying this soon in the first place.

But there's something to be said for this too, I suppose. Like, instead of spending two whole months agonizing over what a pain in the not-so-proverbial tush this is, I'll be through with the bitching and moaning in less than two weeks. Unless it doesn't happen. In which case, well, I'll just be screwed. And I probably wouldn't complain any more at that point anyway.

It's amazingly hard, though, to get all the necessary paperwork done. There's the initial process, where you have to go through your life history and then sign your life away to the tune of how much money you don't have. And then when you go to get the money you might get lucky enough to get on loan, you have to actually produce the documents for the school's perusal. Next on the list, no doubt, would be to donate a few duplicate bodily organs. You know, for collateral, or perhaps just as part of the payment process.

I wish there was some program available that would pay you for spam. Perhaps one of the companies that gets your address when you sign up for different services online (*cough* roommate finder services! *cough*) should be forced into a deal where, because they're sending ME email and taking up MY time by clogging up my inbox, they should pay a dollar for each spam message I receive. A small price to pay when you consider how expensive other forms of advertising can be. And it'd be altruistic enough that I'd be less annoyed by the spam, because I'd probably be making like $50-$100 a day. It could be all forms of spam, too, and then all that comment spam I get on this blog could be put to good use as well. I'd be living it large in California in no time. Sayonara, student loans!

Whatever, Phil. Keep dreaming.

A new way to ring in the new year. Almost back to normal. I could've eaten a horse at dinner, though I don't actually fancy ever doing that. The best way to bring in the new year, though: bowling. Three games in the space of an hour. Shocked at how much energy I suddenly had.

• Phil: 91...102...177!

• Robert: 48...114...249!!!!

I got my butt kicked in the end. But damn. What a time we had. This year is definitely off to a great start.