I’m sorry that I left without leaving so much as a note. I acknowledge that it was insensitive for me to to run off, leaving the IKEA furniture that I shed so many tears* to obtain bolted to the wall. Yet it seems symbolic that the two pieces I left behind are called “EXPEDIT” and “HOPEN”.
When I met you, I was running away, hoping beyond all hope that I wasn’t making the biggest mistake of my life. I didn’t tell you this, but I always viewed you as a stopping ground, a safe harbour. Never as a permanent home.
Let’s face it, a woman needs a little space to call her own.
And a bedroom door.
And a mortgage.
I won’t miss your inpenetrable lighting fixtures. Changing a lightbulb shouldn’t require a toolkit and an engineering degree.
I won’t miss my nominee for Toronto’s worst neighbour, MuchMusic. How often does Justin Bieber visit, anyway?
I will miss watching the always entertaining late night discussions outside my window between the 905 Clubsters and Parking Enforcement.
(OK, so that video didn’t feature any Parking Enforcement, but you get the idea. Very Jersey Shore, no? With snow. Also, it’s not College, it’s Queen Street).
If it makes you feel any better, when I told a friend that the movers were laughing at how little actually had to be moved, he said:
They only see the physical, not the emotional baggage.
I hope you don’t mind, I left a lot of the emotional baggage behind. Along with the EXPEDIT and the HOPEN.
All the best with the new guy.
* In front of some young blonde delivery clerk at IKEA. I cried so hard, I left snot stains on the delivery forms. But that’s a memory I’m trying to repress.