© 2013 ellathompson


RAWR. The time has come for yet another move for my fam. Yes, we do this often. More than often. We literally move house every two years. And it’s not to different parts of the world (I have never been overseas), nor to different regions of Australia. It’s always just to another house a couple hundred metres down the road. Yep.

I gotta admit, I’m pretty good at moving. The night before we last moved house, I packed up my room into boxes in less than an hour. Yeah, I know. It’s a pretty impressive achievement. I try not to brag about it.

And, yes, I still live with my family. Coz I’m an 18-year-old with no money who doesn’t like to cook. So shush.

It is a shame to move, because this house is the best I have ever lived in. What’s worse is that it’s being knocked down and turned into apartments. So, before I pack up my room, before we tetris everything we own into some cars and trucks and whatever other vehicles we find access to, I just want to tell the house goodbye.

Goodbye, brilliant house with enough space for da bro and I to coexist without declaring nuclear war on each other (I kid, we’re budz. Sorta).

Goodbye, bedroom.

Farewell, built-in wardrobe that makes me happy because I can fit pretty much everything I own into it.

Adios, artsy garage with graffiti all over the walls where I can chill wit ma friendz in peace.

So long, amazing location of hipsters and artists and foreigners and homeless people, where cars are not necessary to get to places.

And, cheerio, you bloody toilet that never flushes.

Who knows… maybe I’ll beat my record for packing up my room…


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