We’re never moving again. I’m calling it. I have PTSD from the sound of packing tape going rip rip rippity rap across cardboard. I have washed newspaper ink off my grubby fingers after unboxing fragile glassware for the last time. I will be buried in this place! Actually, toss me in the gas fireplace when it’s my time. I’m sure at-home cremations will be a thing by then. 

But let us focus on the positive. Like: we have moved to the country, and so far, we love it. We have twice as much space! It’s so quiet! Did I mention the gas fireplace? I see that I did!