Moves, regardless of how short the actual distance, make me horribly sentimental.  You'll scoff, I know, because could you imagine me as the sentimental type?

Me.  The one who has no qualms donating childhood mementos (Toy Story's worst nightmare) and cleaning out my parents' home of clutter when they're out of town.  The one who wants to bin everything in a random fit of frustration and anger - just get it all out and out of my sight before I have to dust another flippin' tchotchke.  The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up's got nothing on me.

But here I am, all the same, getting maudlin about someone else's upcoming move literally down the street from his current apartment.  It's the closing of a chapter, an end of the beginning of something.  It's a period that I'll be able to remember fondly, but not one that I'll be able to visit EVER AGAIN.  Awfully dramatic, Rooth.  He optimistically tells me that it'll be the opportunity to make new memories and a new start!  I heave a sigh and try to memorize the layout and feel of every room.

The move isn't to a quaint cottage like the one I'm sharing today but all us real estate junkies can dream all the same, right?  I'm guessing this neighborhood is crawling with itty bitty masked superheroes and ghosts come Halloween, but inside, it's all tranquility and a blank canvas.  I'd gladly take the children's playroom off the kitchen and turn it into my very own studio or my very own roller rink.  Don't tell me you wouldn't want to skate all over those concrete floors.