~ I wrote this last week when I was having a bad “Karina day” as we call them. ~
Moving out of my apartment of almost three and a half years is hard. I’ve started the packing process... Yikes. But I haven’t cried yet, so I consider that a major accomplishment.
Probably the only ridiculously upsetting part about moving out of my apartment is the fact that Karina spent almost as much time there as I did. On summer evenings, we would sit on the porch for HOURS after work, talk about our days and smoke way too many cigarettes. She would often walk into my apartment unannounced with two fountain diet cokes from Burger King that she had picked up on her way. She could read my mind.
During the second year I lived there, she had a key to my apartment and I had a key to hers. (Of course my roommates had “okayed” that beforehand.) One of my female roommates liked her way more than she liked me, and made it quite clear because she tended to only engage in conversation when Karina was around. We all referred to her as our fourth roommate. I can’t ever get the image of Karina yelling from the bathtub scrubbing her feet from a hot summer’s day. I won’t forget her doing her laundry in my basement. In the winter, we would snuggle on my couch and watch scary movies. She was the only one that ever would... None of my friends like scary movies as much as Karina and I did.
This damn apartment... I almost feel like it betrwayed me because she’s not there when I am. The insides feel haunted by her, and yet I’m still there walking through them, brushing my fingers along the shitty plastic walls... I’m going to leave this place. I’m going to leave it behind me and not go back. Every time I step onto the rotting front porch that could break through at any moment, my anxiety turns up a notch. Another hour, another day in that apartment without our dear Karina. The night before she got in her car accident, the three amigos sat on the back porch of my apartment. When the night was over, we all kissed each other goodbye and made plans for the weekend.
I hate this apartment. I hate that it’s being trashed by two bros who couldn’t care less about my belongings that take up the entire space. I hate that I’m still there. I hate the floors that I wept and screamed on that Saturday morning. I hate that fucking front porch that my father caught me on as I collapsed when he picked me up. I’m ready to move on from this place. It’s time to go, and I will bring my memories with me.