Moving sucks. And I say that as someone who hasn’t even moved all that many times. I moved when I left home to go off to college… and during those years, I was in a few different apartments. Then I moved to California… where I’ve been at a few different addresses, as well.
But that’s about it. Far fewer than some people I know.
But moving sucks. I admit that having a brother who’s telekinetic is incredibly helpful in the actual process, but he still won’t help me unpack.
Which means I spend weeks living in rooms that look like this.
Moving websites sucks for similar reasons. Instead of making my way around boxes filled with assorted junk, I’m making my way around pages with big, empty boxes. Macy assures me that everything’s fine, that the empty boxes will be filled with pretty pictures and stuff, soon.
But then she reminds me that the blog boxes are for me to fill up.
So. Here I am. Prepared to tell you all about how mundane the life of a meta can be. And I guess since we’re on the subject, I’ll talk about where I’ve lived.
I grew up in Pennsylvania, in a town you’ve never heard of, surrounded by deer and people who shoot them. Probably the closest town you’d know would be the one where that groundhog lives, about thirty miles away.
As a child, I loved where I lived, but by the time I was a teen, I felt stifled there. I eventually went to school at Penn State, which was seventy miles away. State College (the town surrounding Penn State) was a metropolis compared to home. I probably could have enjoyed living there for a lot longer, but life threw me some curves and I just needed to leave.
I ended up choosing San Francisco for my home, though not without some trepidation. Deciding to relocate across the country wasn’t easy for me to do. But I can honestly say I don’t regret it for a moment.
First, I lived in the Tenderloin, which looks a lot like this.
Then I moved down to the Haight-Ashbury district, which looks a lot like this.
And now, wouldn’t you know it, I’m back near the Tenderloin, again, roughly six blocks from my old digs. Just north of the accepted boundary of the neighborhood by about a block, putting me in that nebulous zone between the Tenderloin and Nob Hill. Call it the Tendernob. Call it Tenderloin Heights. I don’t care.
I call it home.