Oh the celebratory actions of leaving....which includes whiskey, ofcourse.

Tonight I keep walking into my room. Laying on the bed. Staring at my belongings. Coach purse, over priced jackets that only warm me with compliments from randoms, a hair straightener, multiple pairs of high heels, and my lovely mirror. My bed that I'm selling. My door that I wish I could keep. The things I've come to depend on for my happiness. The things that never make me happy. What a fake.

I don't want to be anxious anymore.

And I'm tired of people I care about making me feel bad for leaving. Fuck you, Tim. Mom. Nick.

I'm doing what I want. Jeezfuckwhoredamncuntshitwhiskeyballs.

nostalgia, to say the least

I'm feeling rather odd today.

Missing people and I haven't even left yet. I still have a month and I'm missing people while I'm with them. Like Tim and coffee and cheap groceries. Missing people and things that aren't even here anymore, physically or otherwise. Like Leda. Kieran. Hookah lounge. I'm missing feeling something. Everything reminds me of something reminds me of everything that doesn't exist anymore. It reminds me why I'm leaving, while simultaneously making me want to stay and do it all over again.

I may just hide out. Watch movies and sleep and hermit until go time.

36 days.

More than a year later and I'm still counting down. Some things never change.