something you’ll get back when you move out.

This will never happen.

I will never move again. I refuse to go through such major upheaval ever again in my life.

For those of you who’ve never moved on your own, count your blessings. You’ve never had to haunt grocery stores and back alleys looking for sturdy boxes. You’ve never tried to steer a car while writing down the phone number to a rental office and checking for sleazy residents as you drove by an apartment complex. The whole moving process is a never-ending continuum of misery … and most students do it too often.

I moved to San Diego with only what I could cram into my Civic. It took me all of two hours to arrange my belongings in my dorm room.

That was the last time I tasted true freedom, for never again would I be able to move by simply loading up my eggbeater and chugging off into the sunset.

Over the months, my collection of useless crap multiplied exponentially, posing a great problem when it came time to move out.

I had to find an apartment for the summer. Obviously, the truth in advertising law doesn’t apply to rental listings.

“One bedroom in nice house with own entrance, shower and kitchen privileges” means a roomy closet with a hole in one wall, a leaky pipe and a rusty hot plate.

“Charming house with sun room, swing set and spacious backyard near shopping centers” means the house is leaning to one side, missing a wall in the living room, has a tire on a rope hanging from a tree branch in the back lot, and is down the road from Pete’s Mighty Lube and Breakfast Shoppe.

Don’t be fooled if the ad says, “$375, utilities included.” Those “utilities” are usually your porch light and stove fan. Everything else is extra. You’ll be surprised how a few light bulbs and minor appliances can warrant a savings plan of their own.

Once you decide on the right apartment, you have to scrape enough pennies together for your first month’s rent and deposit. They call it deposit, see, so you think it’s something you’ll get back when you move out. This will never happen.

I’ve lost more money in deposits than Pamela Anderson Lee has spent on silicone and peroxide.

Apartment managers will find any way possible to stiff you out of your deposit. We shampoo the carpet; they charge us for overloading the electricity circuits. We scrub the insides of the cabinets; they charge us to repaper the shelves. We scour the bathtub till it shines; they charge us for having to “restore the lustrous, pearly finish” inside the tub.

Once you’ve signed away your financial life and kissed your deposit goodbye, it’s time to gather your stuff and haul it over to your new digs.

They say now’s the perfect time to throw away all the junk that’s cluttering up your life. Weed out your ratty pink huaraches and mesh muscle shirts. The more you toss, the less you’ll have to unpack.

This, too, is a joke.

I cannot remember ever throwing anything away during the packing process. Not only do I cling to everything I own, I pack with such a flawed sense of logic I forget what’s inside the box the second it’s sealed.

My winter boots, coffee maker and Chia lamb snuggle together at the bottom of my “Towels and Sheets” box. My curling iron, violin bow, old photos and tennis racket share space in the box marked “Kitchen Supplies.”

Since I became a vagabond, I’ve bought more eyelash curlers than Tammy Faye could use in her whole lifetime. Someday, I know I’ll unzip the battery compartment in my Teddy Ruxpin and they’ll all come tumbling out.

Getting the boxes to your new apartment is another hassle. For this, you must have a friend with a truck. Plan ahead so that a few months before moving day, you will have scoped out an unsuspecting classmate. Administer sincere charm as needed, and, soon, you will be one truck-driving-friend richer.

Congratulations you’ve just saved yourself $40 on a U-Haul.

Force all that you can into the vehicle, and schlepp on over to your new home. Kick the boxes up the steps and through your new front door.

Once all is safely inside, plan your decor and arrangement of the furn wait did I almost type “furniture”? I must’ve forgotten. College kids don’t have furniture!

We have futons that serve as beds, and sofas and bookshelves as needed. We have cardboard boxes for coffee tables, and ping-pong tables and folding chairs in the dining room. Our entertainment system consists of a TV set in the middle of the room and a boom box on the refrigerator. Disposable furniture is our way of life.

So, since you don’t have any furniture to speak of, relax! Why unpack? It’s like emptying the dishwasher or folding your laundry. If you neglect the chore now, you’ll end up saving yourself time and energy later. And you thought there were no rewards for laziness …

Yet I’m sticking to my guns about not moving.

The notion of uprooting my life, soul and shoe collection brings a knot to my stomach. The uncertainty of a new roommate, slumlord and neighbors is too much for this girl to handle. I’ll keep my room the size of a matchbox, the overpriced laundry facilities and loony-tune next-door neighbor. It may be structurally unsafe and the first building to buckle when the Big One hits, but … hey, it’s home.

Gasia Mikaelian is a journalism senior. Her e-mail address is mikaelia@rohan.

sdsu.edu.