I hate moving. Boxes, packing, stuff, stuff I don’t need, stuff I’m still going to move to my new place just in case I might need it at some point, stuff I’m emotionally attached too, stuff I actually need but wish I didn’t.
I love moving. A new opportunity, a fresh start, a chance to decorate AGAIN, a place to make my own, a symbol of continued prosperity, a chance to relive those memories because I finally found that box of pictures, a chance to buy new stuff (that I probably still don’t need: see above), finally dusting that shelf I’d been putting off, unpacking.
I hate moving. I love moving. I have to go pack.