I Hope I Love New Orleans Because I’m Never Moving Again

I literally live here now.

I treated myself to a night at the TWA Hotel the night before I moved, which was also the night before my birthday. A lot of shit’s gone down since.

I’ve been thinking. We have enough disrupted cookware and mattress brands. Can someone dig into the moving industry? I’d appreciate it. Eighteen days ago, a moving company picked up my belongings in New York in order to move them to New Orleans. I paid them a handsomely to collect my stuff, and then I had to pay them handsomely again on the first day of my delivery window. Ten days later, at the end of that delivery window, my stuff hadn’t even left New York. I didn’t know that until after the delivery window had closed because my moving company enjoys torturing people by never giving them information, so for ten days I woke up every day thinking, “Is it today? Maybe it’s today!” Reader, it was never today. As of the present moment, two days after the delivery window, it still hasn’t left New York. I haven’t slept on my bed or sat on something that wasn’t made of wood in 18 days. How’s your summer going?

Moving across the country is kind of my thing, this is my fifth time doing it. I’m no stranger to drastic change, I actually thrive in it. It’s the interim period that causes my mental health and physical comfort a great strain, and this interim period is longer than all four of my other cross-country moves combined. Ironically, New York to New Orleans was supposed to be my easiest move yet. Tons of advanced planning, no long-distance driving involved, hire movers, fly to new city—I’ve never done things this way before, and I don’t mind telling you that booking a one-way ticket is a bit of a flex.

And yet… somehow this move is a punisher. I’m dealing with a completely disinterested moving company (who I will name if it turns out I need to, but only AFTER they give me my shit) that responds to my inquiries about the whereabouts of my LIFE’S POSSESSIONS with the same urgency one might apply to leaving a fabulous party—they’re not in a rush, is what I’m saying. So I sit here, on a hardwood floor, for the 18th day, confirming to you and perhaps to myself that we’re looking at what may very well be the last long distance move of my life. If you think I’m doing this shit again you’re out of your tree.

So far, as New Orleans goes, I love it—which is both optimistic and convenient. Every time I leave the house I enjoy myself, be it…