Last Saturday my roommate and I moved from MacArthur Park to Culver City. We hit and quit an apartment’s worth of debris in five hours. We squeezed a 8′ couch through our new front door in a sequence that confirmed my desire never to give birth. We sweat our T-shirts to the hem and then put on new ones to do it again.
This is not a story about furniture, though. This is a story about a sixteen-foot truck.