Why packing is a downright terrible idea

I am, by all accounts, not much of a procrastinator. I was always the obnoxious student who started the paper as soon as it was assigned, just so I wouldn't have it hanging over my head. Leaving things to the last minute stresses me out unbearably. Except when it comes to packing. Indeed, it seems that the whole of my ability to put things off has been funneled into this one realm. I'm heading to Connecticut Saturday morning, and I'll probably be cramming things into bags up until the last possible second.

For now, all I can motivate myself to do is to just...move things around disconsolately. For all my inability to actually pack, I am quite excellent at constructing and disassembling large, random, piles. I spent a few hours last night engaged in this pursuit, until I gave up and went out with my friends, hastily chucking the heaps of kitchen utensils and winter outerwear out of my bed and onto the floor.

I woke up around 3:00 in the morning with an inkling that something wasn't right. Sure enough, I quickly became aware of a sharp pain in my right buttock. Further analysis revealed that I was lying on some kind of sharp metal object: which turned out to be...a Lamb of God cookie cutter (from the Resurrection set - because every good Episcopalian girl has one?).

Gotta say,waking up in the middle of the night to discover the image of a divine sheep painfully imprinted on my rear didn't really do much to boost my motivation to pack. It did, however, give me a rather severe craving for cookies. Good thing I'm moving into a house with a real oven in 2 days. Perhaps I should acquire some non-Easter themed cookie cutters in the meantime? It would be another way to delay packing...