Dynamite: quickest fix known to man

Now that the end of my residence here is in sight, all the small things that needled me to a barely significant extent throughout all this time have become magnified. Every time I empty the garbage under the sink and stick its unforgiving metal frame back underneath the u-pipe that's too low to accept it smoothly, it bores a hole right through me. I feel like picking it up and flattening it against the floor.

The intensely prolific lint machine running amok in this house seems like it's on the verge of burying us, though there's probably less actual lint now than there has been for years. What was trapped under the bedroom rug was nothing less than a whole sweater, and let me tell you the pattern was pretty gross.

Driving my girlfriend. Picking her up at the LRT station so she won't have to bus and walk around alone in a basically unsafe neighbourhood. Chivalry can be so goddamned inconvenient sometimes. Lately though, it's unbearable. Even though I love my girl and want to be with her more rather than less, it's the going to get her that just drives me nuts. And now, when there's so many fucking things I should be doing that every day's a tally of opportunity cost and messy triage, it's much worse. It's totally unfair, I know: it takes fifteen minutes to hop in the car and drive out there, and I've already been writing this for longer than that. But I just can't seem to help the way it feels.

We've just gotten started painting to get ready for what will undoubtedly be some Manson Family tenant types, and it feels like we will never finish. Not counting the dwindling hours of this day, I have six days left to finish everything that has to - has to - be done. I'm totally overwhelmed. There's two weeks left to paint three more rooms and a hallway, find a place to store my piano (unless by some fluke it sells right away), sand the hardwood floors, stain them, get new locks on everything, fix the hole in the cupboard door that I'd put there with my fist two years ago and just covered with a crappy painting, find tenants, move, and on top of everything else the Coachella tickets I bought look like they're about to be sold at a nice little discount. Man, if I'd been able to score them at the price I'm about to sell them for, it might have been more conceivable that we'd actually be going.

I'm just panicking. It's going to be good. I just wish it had already happened.

("Scylla" and "Charybdis" images are from here.)