We could pack everything we own and still loan you a garment bag.

For the past few days I've been busy packing up The Room Where All Of My Shit Lives. For some reason we've always referred to that room as "The Office" even though it contains absolutely nothing that would make it either convenient and/or possible to accomplish anything office-ish.

Remember Blanket Cam? That's "The Office".

Makes you want to slide on in there and maybe knock out a budget PowerPoint, doesn't it? Just wait till I tell you that there aren't any lights! I know! You'd think I intentionally set out to create a suffocation chamber. That lamp doesn't work and hasn't since 2002 so quit it.

Randy has been threatening for years to implement The Comprehensive Schematic Of Genius Room Configuration, and I was recently granted a brief and somber audience with the blueprints. As far as I can ascertain:

1) Once The Office is devoid of... my crap, all of the gym equipment that is currently taking up space in The Luggage Room will move in, and The Office will become "The Gym", or maybe "The Gym That Is Sort Of Actually An Office" because lately there's been hushed talk of a desk. I don't know. I just work here. At the kitchen table.

2) Once The Luggage Room is devoid of gym equipment, my step-daughter's furniture will move in there and it will become her bedroom. She is not particularly pleased with this decision because a) the room smells like wetsuits, and b) surprisingly enough, there's a luggage situation.

3) Once empty, Randy's daughter's old bedroom will become THE GAME ROOM. Everybody (save my would be step-daughter, who is holding out for an appeal) is very, very excited about this, and as I appear to be an intregal part of Phase One, I have been encouraged to HURRY THE FUCK UP.

All of this is completely irrelevant, and the only reason that I brought any of it up is because while I was packing I found a hook that I used to hang my keys on in my apartment. I'd forgotten about the hook, and when I found it I got all nostalgic and excited ("Yay! Hook!") and I hung it next to the kitchen door.

Randy thought that I was being a bit ridiculous about a stupid hook (see: "Yay! Hook!") and so he made a little joke, like this: "Aw, it's just like you're living in your apartment again! Only you're not slowly starving to death."

For the first time in a long time I knew with absolute clarity where the fuck my keys were. I was jaunty and unconquerable. "Yes!" I answered. With a little celebratory kick to the wall. "Just like my apartment! Only I'm not starving, true... and now I hide my porn."

"Please don't," Randy said.

He meant "please don't kick the wall," not "please don't hide your porn." As I determined moments later via two very regrettable back-to-back mistakes.

Roommates, man: they may not be down with impromptu porn unveilings, and they might be a tad rigid about the walls, but they sure as shit make up for it with... plans. Oh, and food.