I'm in the apartment

And I'm living out of boxes. It's chaotic. I'm trying to enjoy the chaos (they say live in the moment, but they didn't tell me that the moment would be oh so pig-styish).

Last night, I went out and got two heaping slices of pepperoni pizza, a bottle of Perrier and I opened the bottle of champagne that my friend/ broker had gifted me when I closed on the apartment. I sat down on my couch, put my feet up on the Sierra Leone wooden chest that I dragged with me by plane, train and automobile (strike train) from Freetown to the airport in Belgium to New York temporary housing provided by my firm to my rented New York apartment to my OWN New York apartment, opened the Time Magazine that I had bought to while away the time, and set about . . . staring at all of the boxes.

It was hot, and I didn't want to turn on the air conditioning, primarily because it was covered by plastic sheets and papers (the painters need to finish up that area). I put on my old white-shirt, of an age such that the neckline sags down to the center of my chest. I stretched out on my couch, careful not to put my feet on it, my feet being disgusting from having traipsed back and forth about my still-being-painted apartment dragging boxes about. And as I itemized the list of things I needed to do over the next few days/ weeks/ months/ years, the rest of my life, I fell asleep.