#2. ... And Then Your New Place Will be a Money Pit
If I tell you to budget money to "decorate" your new place, every single male in the readership will roll his eyes and mentally strike it off. "Dude, like I'm going to be spending thousands of dollars on curtains and rugs and wallpaper. I ain't gay! Who told you I was gay? Who was it? Was it fucking Tyler? I'll kick his ass!"
OK, tough guy, here's what happens. You're standing in your new place, and suddenly you realize that the whole world can see into your house, because there is nothing covering your windows. The place didn't come with curtains or blinds. You're walking around the house nude, and there's a school bus unloading a bunch of toddlers next door. What are you going to do, tape up a bunch of newspapers?
See, the first look is free. After that, you start charging, and that's where you get 'em hooked.
So, fine, you decide you'll go buy the cheapest curtains they make. That's what I did at my new place.
Total curtain bill: 250 fucking dollars. Again, not designer rich-people curtains. These were one step up from just thumb-tacking bedsheets to over the windows.
At one point, I tried hanging up a live dog, but it just licked the glass until it was all tongue-smudged.
Yeah, that's just the beginning of the decorating bill, and I'm not even including fancy things I sprung for, like the hundreds of live doves I make my fiance release behind me whenever I enter a room in slow motion. Is your new place exactly the same size as your old one? No? Then a lot of your shit won't fit in the new place.
Now you find yourself asking, "Where the hell am I going to put this china cabinet I'm using to display my bongs?" If you can't make it fit, all of your choices involve losing money: 1) giving it away 2) paying to put it into storage 3) selling it on short notice to whomever will take it off your hands before you're forced to do either of the first two. Expect to get back about five percent of what you paid.
Though it may be best for your neighbors to not see some of the freaky shit in your garage sale.
#1. Disaster Will Strike
This isn't bad luck. It's statistical certainty. Even if you're not living under a gypsy curse like Brockway, something awful will happen.
It's just the law of averages. For each person and step you add to a project, you up the likelihood that something will break down. And think about who all needs to do their job correctly for your move to go smoothly. The hookup technicians at a half dozen utilities. The movers, if you're using them. The landlords and/or maintenance guys at the new place (and there's always some project they are supposed to finish before your move in date, even if it's just painting the place).
"We're thinking light green to contrast the brick."
And lots of these people just don't give a shit.
Back in June, I talked about what an enormous clusterfuck it was getting my Internet connection turned on. I thought I was giving them plenty of time by calling two weeks in advance. It wound up taking 51 days. Somebody on their end made a mistake. Or rather, just wrote down the appointment without checking to see if they actually offered service to the neighborhood.
And in general, every assumption you make about transferring an account turns out to be wrong. Yes, it doesn't help that my credit is shot from years of being poor, but all the local cable/satellite providers wanted up to $600 in up-front fees before they even billed the first month. One of those companies was DirecTV ... the same people who I had been using for the past year at my old place without any deposits or credit checks. But since that account was used in another town (and another county), the local dealers in my new town didn't acknowledge it. There was no transferring the account to my new house. I had to start from scratch.
Now think of the infinite universe of tiny, losable little objects you depend on. Your contact lens case. Your box cutter. Your one good pair of scissors. You will lose approximately half of them in the move. They're lost at the bottom of a cardboard box full of blank CD-R discs and ink cartridges for a printer you no longer own. Or, if your move takes more than one day, you'll get stuck in that netherworld where half of your shit exists in one apartment and half in the other, and the tiny, losable little object you need right now is in whichever place you don't happen to be at the moment. Regardless of where it is, you won't find it until an hour after you broke down and bought a new one.
It's enough to make a man want to go on a slappin' spree. Maybe I will, as soon as I find my slappin' gloves.