Moving and Hans' Hairy Pits

So. The blog's been a bit stagnant recently. If I were to break down the cause of this problem into a percentage, I'd have to chalk this up to 98% laziness and 2% stress because I've moved. That's the great thing about this blog because all of a sudden, you've got cellophane wrapped around your face and a drawer just fell on your right foot and you're like "holy shit! This is completely fucking awkward! I can't wait to blog about this." Well, kind of. In all seriousness (or as serious as one can be here), moving really sucks. Let's see....it has been a blast waiting a day and half without food or water for a mattress that was scheduled to arrive yesterday during a 'one to five hour window' which ended up being an impromtu, makeshift episode of Urban Survivor where I forged for crumbs and ate popcorn kernels left behind by my mattress-endowed roomate and tried not to be phased by the mild hallucinations I was having thanks to the fresh paint job and heavy-duty cleaning supply stench that seems to occupy every new apartment. But starving and slightly high, I ended up smoking a half pack of cigarettes, pacing the lot of my tiny abode roughly 40+ times, and actually jumped for joy when the mattress men showed up (that sounds a bit off, huh? mattress men...) a few minutes ago . Anyway, the 'mattress men' showed up and there are two guys, one of which I've presumed is named Joe, and the other looks like, get this, an over-sized Kiebler elf. Ok, I know you're thinking wow, who the fuck cares about this story, everyone hates moving, get over it. Or: Yeah, moving's awful so why would I want to relive it through you're snarky little opinionated rant? But the whole point of this story is this overgrown Kiebler Elf. He is by far, hands down, the hairiest fucking person I have ever seen. His hair is the color of a new penny and it's insanely frizzy. But it isn't the hair on his head that's got me thrown. He has the hairiest pits I have ever seen. It looks as if he's about to give a noogie to two ginger, friz headed toddlers. We're talking Don King-like hair. I mean, his pits are so hairy he could smuggle a small child across some illicit border in there. A kilo of coke, his stash of steroids. I just can't look away. With a twitch of his mandarin mustache, he smiled over my cheap mattress and said, "I'm Hans." I swear the bush under his arms reached out at me a little. Anyway, if I turn up missing, send help and check the pits.