Why I Dread Moving.

At one point there was this girl. We dated. We moved in together. At some point inbetween, some dude stalked her and my mom, bless her heart, outfitted girl with Pepper Spray.

Later, I'm at the apartment, packing stuff up. I've packed up the dishes, I've packed up books, I've packed up all sorts of things. Came to the dreaded junk drawer, where all things are reminiscent to the point of gag. Yes, there were kinder eggs from my 10th easter in there, pens that are dead but could be refilled one day, rebate forms, busted up sunglasses that are probably back in fashion by now, old near empty bottles of perfume.

"This is an odd looking bottle of perfume," I thought to meself.

"Spray, spray," went the bottle.

"Giant SNIFF sniff," went Lucas.

At the precise moment when the 'sniff' command had been sent to my nostrils, too late to turn back, did I realize exactly what was in the bottle.

It is less than three steps to the bathroom from the junk drawer, and I have never moved faster. I didn't quite make it all the way.