by Cameryn Moore
Hi, thanks, no, I’m fine, everything’s good, I just have to pack up, you don’t mind if I keep working, do you? Great.
This shit. Look at all this shit. This debris that I’m lying in, that I’m surrounded by as I write this. This is the part of moving that I always hate, the little bits, the tiny pieces that I manage to strew around if I’m in a place for longer than a week. Do I need this extension cord, these bloomers, these leggings, this book, these unscented menstrual pads with wings? Everyone says if you can buy it over there, then don’t bring it, but those people must have more money than I do, fuck. I can’t buy everything over again. And the only pads I saw in Brighton—the last place I had my period in the UK—they were all scented, so the pads are coming.
And other things, I know damn well that I can get them over there, I’d just like to not have to run out and get them first thing, before I’ve had time to do a show or get my bearings. Like, I have those little laundromat-vending-machine bottles of detergent, surely just one, for the first two loads, that’d be nice to have on hand. Makeup sponges. Fuck, makeup remover, I will be spending at least a half-hour cleaning out my travel toiletries bag and transferring makeup remover into a little travel bottle that I know is going to break anyway.
That’s the one true constant. There will always be receipts.