Like really scared. I’m sitting on my parents’ couch, drinking day-old sangria (yum) and watching hockey. In less than 36 hours, everything I own and want to keep will be packed into two cars to be driven 1200 miles to my first grown-up (read: way too expensive) apartment. Precisely none of my stuff is packed or in any way prepared for the move. But I have to move, and I have to move this weekend. Hotel rooms and plane tickets have been booked. There is no job waiting for me; there is no plan; I’m not sure what to do.
So I write. The only way I can soar is by jumping off this giant cliff and flapping like crazy. I hope you can join me on this journey. It’s my life, and there’re no rules (except to pay rent by the 1st of every month). Watch me fight to fly.