purging the dead

As I'm cleaning my apartment this weekend and feeling like I keep hitting mental roadblocks (and also tracking the sordid, unlucky history of this apartment in general), I'm realizing that in order to move forward with everything, I'm going to have to get rid of the tiny memories that are taking up cluttered space.

I feel like this apartment is caving in on me.

That means I need to throw away the small tidbits, like the program from a performance of Twelfth Night at an Astoria Beer Garden (I don't think the Astoria Beer Garden) 9 years ago, acted in by a guy Chris I was dating at the time (and let me tell you, that didn't last long). The few times I slept over at his apartment, also in Astoria, we stayed up all night in his twin bed scaring each other with not-even-that-scary ghost stories (and once watched his jobless, beer-gutted roommate's high school appearance on Jeopardy). The biggest (and maybe only) substantial thing I gained from that relationship was an introduction to one of my now-favorite movies, Drop Dead Gorgeous. And thus began a long string of almost-boyfriendly manchildren with futons and other problems. Why do I need a dot-matrix generated playbill to remind me? My memory is pretty clear, and if it gets fuzzy, I doubt a few sheets of paper are going to jog it. Also, everything keeps bringing me back to Astoria anyway (a lot of the more significant things have happened there), so I'm sure the universe will do me a solid and continue its madness until I get it right.

I'm never going to move forward if I can't let go of the little things.

So, here I go.