Friday, May 21, 2010
I'm about to part with my first piece of big furniture.
I lay in bed last night tossing and turning.
Booking a one way ticket freaked me out, but I didn't lose sleep over it.
Getting a visa only induced excitement which lead to mass celebrations that took place in aviator sunglasses on top of a bar counter.
But now, a friend who is buying my couches is collecting the first couch this weekend.
The empty space (what will I put there in the interim?) has unleashed the beast.
I am immigrating. In the name of good fuck, I'm immigrating.
The first couch that I ever owned (Furniture City), is going to a new home this weekend.
It's been privvy to my entire 8 year existence in Johannesburg. It was Scotch Guarded luckily, as it's had it's fair share of red wine splattered over it during karaoke parties.
It's seen boyfriends come and go, it's lived in three apartments, it's been fornicated on, and leading on from that, the covers have been through around 45 washing machine cycles.
If I'm crying over a stupid couch, what the hell am I going to do when I have to part with my Beetle? Run behind it for two kilometres as the new owner makes me eat dust?
I'm getting rid of my stuff. The process has started, and my flat is starting to look threadbare.