Today when I woke up, I came to the realisation that technically, until the end of the week, we have two houses. Which is why I took my tea and Wall-plot (that's what we're calling it because I said so) upstairs at the ass-crack of dawn, stood in front of it and wandered about the philosophical questions "How do you stick a sticky-note that doesn't stick?" for about an hour, before I decided to use paper tape. (Update: it's still not entirely sticking) Then I went back down and took all my clothes upstairs, then I took the books and then I decided it wasn't enough and I dragged the bookshelf itself up there.
Then I realised the air-conditioning of my room works, went downstairs, poured myself another cup of tea, came upstairs, stared at my plot on the wall and waited for it to fix my problems, came up with an idea that might work and get the whole thing in order, got excited, spilled said tea, cleaned it up, stared at the plot some more, stuck sticky-notes that don't stick on it, started writing the outline and thought about how I could come up with a new hashtag specifically made for moving memories, Dad came up and asked very nonchalantly: "You know this is probably your last move? The next move is gonna be the big move." and now I need a drink. Or a cigarette. Or both.
But instead, I should pack up and go downstairs, get ready to head to my German class, survive the last mid-term exam and the last session of this term in general, when I have half a mind to just forget about the whole thing and lock myself in here for the rest of the day and work on my plot.

(This is how I imagine Backman writes his Instagram captions. It's kinda fun.)