Everyone please come over to my house. We are going to take a wonderful shower.

Well, I'm here. I am a Twin Citizen.

Yesterday my dad and my brother Travis came to Mankato, where most of my shit was either piled in the garage or sitting on our front lawn behind the garbage (and its 7 extra bags that didn't fit in the bin--so the garbage man decided he didn't have to take them...la-zy), and then we all put it into a giant white trailer. The trailer looked like it could've been carrying a single cow. Or a horse, maybe, that I was taking upstate to ride in a riding show. Instead the trailer was filled with mostly my books and the green chair (without the slipcover it is the most torn, disgusting piece of furniture I've ever seen) and my bed and my bookshelves and my records and my desk and my stuff.

Christina and I experienced a moment of team lez, wherein we carried the desk and my dresser down the dusty blue-carpeted steps. We should start a moving company. I'd hire Team-Lez Movers before I hired anyone else. Lesbians work hard. And they don't leave the toilet seat up. That can be our motto.

She and I appropriately shook hands goodbye. I patted Truman's furry head, and got through it by telling myself how soon I'd be back. I'll be back soon, I said. The Highland house is empty without all of my junk in it. Christina moved the couch to the middle of the room to fill space. We hadn't really dusted under there for a year, so you can imagine what it looked like. If you can't imagine: well. It looked fucking dusty.

I followed the trailer of my things up 169 for 79 miles to St. Louis Park and to this townhouse. We parked and then unloaded everything, which was entirely exhausting, as we had to walk up a long sidewalk to get to my door. These aren't typical townhomes. They are sort of buried and secluded. Lovely for privacy, shitty for moving when you're 50 yards from the road and carrying a 100 pound television. My dad is a fucking hero. I lost 60 pounds yesterday. I lost over half a TV.

The neighbors were also moving in next door. They had a big truck, and they had movers. The man had a blue-tooth, and the woman had a business suit. And they lived right by the road. So, my dad, Travis, and I walked by all of their moving men with their professional shirts and their ramp and their "where do you want this?" with our little dolly and our hands full of my boxes of books. It actually felt good, even though I was exhausted, to be moving my stuff on my own. It felt a little blue-collar.

Yeah. If I could hire movers, I would. I can't put my dad through this again. The poor guy will have a stroke. One of the moving men said to me: You have a lot of stuff. What a wonderful thing to say. Thanks for watching me move it all, I wanted to say. Instead I said, yup. And it's just me.

My dad and Travis left me with a house full of boxes around five. I unpacked until 8:30, having not really eaten, save a doughnut 12 hours ago. I wanted to fall over. I was disgusting. And then. I tried our shower. The shower. The glorious shower.

It has a massage head. I didn't know this before we rented the place--but it massages you as you shower. The water comes out in very strong streams and pulses at your head, at your aching muscles. And it sort of sounds like a motor boat! Rrr rrr rrr. So that's fun too.

If you're wondering if you should come and visit me, the answer is yes. Just for the shower. I promise you, it will be the best shower you've ever had. It is going to be so much easier to wake up for work, knowing I get to take that shower. Of course, I will still be late, as I will not be able to get out of the shower.

It is pretty much the exact opposite of Highland. I mean, I love the place for what it is, but when I told my dad that nobody had yet rented it for next year, he said good. That place should be condemned for a year until someone fixes it up. True as that is, I'll still always consider it some sort of home.

Because the green chair looks a bit odd in this new living room.