Moving. And cleaning. And, jeez, this sucks. And I need NZT.

We're moving. Packed almost all our worldly possessions into a giant UHaul truck in Wilmington last Friday, unloaded it all two hours north in Greenville last Saturday, and almost but not quite died along the way. You try hauling all that crap up a winding flight of stairs and finagling it into the doorway from moving hell, and you find out what it really means to be a man. And your sweat covers you like you've been swimming. In a monsoon. 

You also discover, as my brother, Logan, astutely observed, two very important things: One, when moving, pick somewhere with a huge door; and Two, when deciding on career options, put "Moving Company Worker" at the bottom of the list, somewhere beneath Janitor and only just above Sewage ... what positions are there in sewage, anyway?

Actually, does it matter? It's sewage. 

But see, the worst thing about moving isn't even the moving. It's the (bleepity) (bleep) (bleep) cleaning up your old place. Holy (bleep), the cleaning sucks. I scrubbed out a trash can yesterday. That's like, sewage's second cousin. And then I scrubbed a toilet. Which is, you know, sewage's mouth. 

I was moaning and groaning about all that. Then I thought about how people are going nuts in London and burning everything, and how there are people starving to death in Somalia. And there I am, in a house a blink from the beach and my belly full of Little Ceasar's, and still I find something to complain about. 

Another thing about packing and cleaning: A month ago I was bummed. I didn't want to move back to Greenville. Not because I have any particular problem with Greenville. I have family and friends in Greenville. I'm excited about seeing them more. But I'm totally going to miss Wilmington. Freakin' great city. 

But now? Dealing with all this? I'm SO ready to be in Greenville, because that means no more hauling, no more heaving, no more eyes burning from cleaning chemicals, no more driving—and more importantly, no more PAYING OUT THE YIN-YANG FOR GAS FOR—UHauls. 

(The good news? I drove that mammoth UHaul, and actually didn't wreck it. And my mother-in-law told me, "You know, you could totally give up writing and become a long-haul truck driver." 

Um, thanks?)

Anyway, Katie and I stayed in Wilmington this week to clean up the now-mostly-empty place and because she had to do a few things with her work. Or something. Mostly because of the cleaning, I think. No furniture, except for a folding table to hold the iMac so Katie can work, and a mattress on the floor of our bedroom. That's it. No couch, leather chair, TV, nothing. We eat sitting on the floor in the office watching Arrested Development on Netflix Instant. 

On top of that, we're both busy as (bleep). Freelance work has never been busier, which is awesome. I'm also developing this new website/blog concept that's been in my brain since the spring. (We're super close to launch, which is exciting.) And I'm working on three separate book ideas right now and, oh yeah, I'm starting grad school in two weeks.

It all makes me really wish NZT was a real thing. You know, that drug from Limitless? Bradley Cooper goes from a failing writer to king of the world in, like, a week, or something. I'd so take that right now. 

I don't want to be king of the world. I just want to get stuff DONE. And not get distracted so easily by Facebook and Twitter and all this social media crap we writers are supposed to be all good at now. 

Hm. Maybe he just took Aderrall. Maybe I can go get diagnosed for ADHD. Then I'd be able to—

Geeezzz, why are these Panera people so LOUD?