You are moving. You think. Could be. Or maybe not.

You are moving. Or you should be moving. You are aware that at some point this week, all your things should be encased in boxes and ensconced in some ugly storage facility somewhere and that your little green car should be pointed north on the Florida Turnpike. This was supposed to happen Saturday. It is now Tuesday.

Today, you ran out of coffee and toilet paper – the only things you truly need to survive – and had to go to Publix. You linger over the two-for-one bins as if you could possibly need two big bottles of red pasta sauce or Crisco oil. You remember the toilet paper at the last minute, when you are in line with two tee-tiny bags of coffee and a Coke. You remember it as you gaze at the magazines – your personal crack, your heroin, and remember that you don’t have time to read a magazine because you are moving Goddammit.

You have moved before. You once moved to three states in one year. There was a time when you were a professional nomad. You don’t know what is wrong with you this time. The Kardashians aren’t that interesting – and yet you find yourself time and again sitting on the couch wondering what in the world Kourtney sees in Scott – although you have to admit he’s a snappy dresser. Perhaps you took The Secret too seriously, and are expecting the universe to pop into your Delray Beach crib like Mary Poppins and gather everything up in the few moments it takes to belt out an engaging little number about change.

What you are doing when you aren’t moving is answering the phone, answering texts, obsessively checking e-mail, and looking at everyone’s pictures on Facebook. You realize this is not moving. You realize you aren’t even having conversations about moving when you catch yourself Monday complaining about visiting a friend in Maine four years ago and the fact that he didn’t tell you about a Halloween party so you could bring a costume.

“Because hey, I’m festive,” you shout into the phone at your friend Betsy.

“You are festive,” said Betsy. “If someone asked me ‘Is Kelly festive?’ I would have no choice but to say yes.”

You yak for one more hour before telling Betsy, “I have to get off this phone. I am starting to think I am never, really going to leave.”

“Well, I can’t say your fears aren’t valid,” she says.

You finally hang up the phone. It rings again. On Monday, you take three more calls, make dinner plans, and, at 3 p.m., decide it is really, really time you get started moving Goddammit.

That is when Clemente arrives at your door – again.

“What up, Clem,” you say.

You’ve seen Clemente numerous times over the past several days. He works for Comcast, which is turning off the basic cable at your condo complex because so many people are in foreclosure that the condo association can no longer afford to pay the bill. Clemente is having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that you don’t want cable anymore.

“Clemente, I’m moving,” you say.

Clemente looks over your shoulder and into your apartment and points his brown eyes at the two measly boxes sitting on the floor and then stares at you with suspicion.

“I really am,” you say.

“Jo-kay,” Clemente says finally. And you know he doesn’t believe you.

He hands you a piece of paper where the words “Notice of Discontent” are highlighted in yellow marker.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“Jur notice of deesconnect,” Clemente says.

You look at the paper again. Sure enough, it says Notice of Disconnect at the top.

You finally get rid of Clemente.

In the one hour you have before you have to get showered for dinner, you decide to concentrate on the kitchen. You are putting things in three piles: things you don’t want; things you want, but aren’t taking with you right now; and things you are taking with you right now, but have to be small enough to fit into aforementioned little green car.

You decide you can’t live without your rolling pin, cheese grater and massive, black Rabbit corkscrew given to you by a male friend who said “I always wanted to give you one good screw.”

You find the place card from the wedding of one of your best friends and wonder if it is junk or a memento. You kept it because it reads: Mr. Kelly Wolfe. This is funny because you were there when this couple shared their first kiss. You were there when they adopted a kid together. You danced drunk at their wedding, came onto their DJ, and referred to their 12-year-old as “your wingman” all night. These are people who know you well. And still, they think you are Chaz Bono. The place card goes into the keep pile.

With the last 30 minutes you have before showering for dinner, you decide to shred some old bank statements and bills you throw into a drawer and never look at again. You are happily whizzing away when one page catches your eye. It reads: This page intentionally left blank.

You put it into the keep pile, thinking it will make a nice epitaph one day.