I build nests.

Faced with a move in only a few days, I’ve been experiencing a growing sense of apprehension.

I was trying to find the cause of it, but my friend put his finger on the problem. ‘You’re a nester,’ he says.

I’m assuming this perceived as a desire to make where I live a comfortable location, and a general reluctance to move once I’m in place. It doesn’t help that this move was precipitated by an outrageous raise in rent, far beyond what the place is worth. So even though the new apartment is generally better in most ways, it’s still not a move of my choice.

I’ve never been good with good-byes. Though I intellectually understand that life is change, it doesn’t make me less grumbly when it comes to leaving anything or anybody in my life behind.

That said, the new place has hardwood floors, nice arches in the doorways, more room, and less occasions for police to require entrance to the building. So maybe I should just stop whining, and get the twigs, loose bits of paper, and shiny wrappers ready for my new nest.

(Do you have any idea how hard it is to box it up? I’ve been picking up loose twigs for DAYS.)

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