Lost in the city.

Right now I’m sitting at the small kitchen table in my new apartment in Portland, Oregon. Five stories below my floor-length windows, rain pelts the ground incessantly. This is day three, and most of my belongings are safely stowed away in their respective cupboards and drawers, with few exceptions. A dry-erase calendar sits forlornly on the laminate floor, leaning against a speed bag stand box. Beside it on the floor are two Hollywood bed frames, each slightly different and each incomplete in its own way. My bed sits squarely on the bare floor as a result. Several empty suitcases stand at attention nearby, and two solitary boxes are all that are left of the army that I arrived with. One contains a massive TV, a prize my boyfriend won in a sales competition a few months back.

On day one we drove three hours north on I5 from Roseburg, a town in southern Oregon, to Portland, a metropolitan hub. That day it rained so hard I could barely make out the lines of the freeway. “Color inside the lines” I thought absently, as I squinted to see through the downpour. Day one was a flurry of packing, driving, and unpacking, and it led me to wonder how many relationships had been demolished through the stress of moving, and my impatience flared up in full effect. My impatience, which only seems to show itself to those who I care most about, is a major personality flaw that yes, I am aware of, but no, I can never seem to suppress. I am impatient sometimes, I can be hyper critical, and I am impulsive.

On day two I wandered through the neighborhood with my always-present sidekick Dante, a massive two-year-old Alaskan Malamute that never fails to draw attention from cooing passersby. I also unpacked. I unpacked and found homes for everything that I could. I vacuumed, and winced as Dante’s booming bark announced his displeasure at the vacuuming. I silently cursed my boyfriend for having so many clothes as I hung up the millionth shirt. I visited Blue Star doughnuts and Barista and I napped. Day two was amazing. I was finally where I had wanted to be since graduation from the University of Oregon, almost one year ago now. I had tasks and purpose. I was happy.

Today, I woke up with few objectives. I needed to walk Dante, pay the meter twice, do some laundry, and make dinner. I live for objectives, so this posed a problem. My usual night is capped by meticulously planning the next day in my head, going over and over my goals and to-do lists and drilling them into my brain. Last night that was nowhere to be found, and I felt a little lost upon waking up. I have listlessly meandered through the day, moving from one thing to the next with no purpose and little thought.

Halfway through the day I ate a sleeve of Oreos. A sleeve. I had done it before I even know what was happening. Ok maybe I knew what was happening, but I barely thought about it. It was me sitting at my computer, browsing through Facebook, perusing posts from people I don’t care about, eating Oreos out of the goddamn box. Like my occasional bouts of impatience, I acted before I thought it out. If I was that hungry I could have made a sandwich. I could have had a salad, I could have taken the elevator down to 23rd street and eaten anything my heart desired! But no, I ate a sleeve of Oreos.

It’s time to spruce up my portfolio because damn, I’m bad at having free time.


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