MOVING DAY (WTF)

Moving Day: Big Earl and the Door Decibels I finally rolled up to the Victorian—my very own WTF: What The Fiasco headquarters—with a truck full of belongings. My room was a prime slice of real estate: middle of the first floor, right in front of the main staircase. This gave me a tactical choice for unloading: Park in the backyard and brave the chaotic Downstairs Kitchen, or park on the street and run the gauntlet of the front door? I chose the front. My first and immediate mistake.

I thought I was avoiding the bottleneck of the kitchen. Instead, I ran directly into the orbital path of Big Earl, the house's self-appointed (and heavily armed) security chief. His room is the first one in the house, and its windows and perpetually open door function as his personal, non-negotiable CCTV system. He was, as always, lying on his bed, watching TV, but his true focus was the surveillance feed: me, dragging boxes. Big Earl is an ex-Marine. His tiny room—seriously, it was the size of a child's closet—was a temple of neat, terrifying organization. Everything had its place, and by extension, everything I did had to be done his way. If you wanted to coexist with this mountainous man, you simply complied. He's not just intimidating; he's the reason we all learned to tiptoe. And God help my soul if the front door dared to close with anything less than a gentle, reverent sigh. Slamming it, letting it thud, or even letting the latch click too loudly meant a slow, booming lecture from the dark corner of his room. Now, my room came "furnished" (a bed, a dresser, and a chair that looked like a discarded bus seat), but I, the fool, brought more stuff: a massive bookshelf, a dry bar, an antique drop-side table, chairs, and enough boxes of clothes and "collectibles" to build a second, smaller Victorian inside my room. Trying to organize all this into a livable space was agony. But the real joy was the constant parade of interruptions. Tenants kept popping their heads in. I couldn't tell if they were genuinely interested in meeting the New Fiasco, or if they were just scouting my boxes to see what junk they could quietly walk off with later. Welcome to my new home. WTF: WHAT THE FIASCO!

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