“Well, Happy New Year’s, baby.
We could probably fix it if we clean it up all day
Or we could simply pack our bags
And catch a plane to Barcelona ’cause this city’s a drag.”
- Counting Crows, “Holiday in Spain”
It’s possible that I am the lamest twenty-two-year-old in the history of the world. Instead of going out and having a fabulous and glamorous time, I stayed in and hung out with my parents and my brother and watched Dick Clark ring in the New Year. And to add to the level of awesomeness that was my New Year’s Eve, I was totally the most pumped about Lionel Richie’s performance (because really, Taylor Swift and the Jonas Brothers?). Lionel totally rocked it, though. Way to go, sir.
New Year’s Day wasn’t exactly glamorous, either, but I did make the best coconut cupcakes in the entire world. I’m also kicking myself for procrastinating on packing. It’s all getting done, but oh, my word, it’s a pain in the butt. I’m trying to get rid of stuff and donate things, but there’s still so much stuff. Packing just never ends, does it? How did my parents pack up entire houses full of things so many times? Let’s just add that to the list of why my parents are the bee’s knees.
Anyway, I suppose I ought to go shove more stuff in boxes so it can join a mish-mash of hand-me-down furniture in a trailer tomorrow afternoon and make the long haul back home. Isn’t there a way I can magically transport all of this stuff to my apartment?
