Yesterday Corgiman and I went out on a lovely date, culminating in finishing the last few episodes of 30 Rock (I’d seen it many times, he hadn’t). And shortly thereafter, I burst into tears and couldn’t stop. Depending on whether and when I get an apartment offer, I may be moving in as little as seven fucking weeks. That’s seven radio shows left (six, actually, because I’ll be traveling one weekend in July). That’s it. Then I’ll be fucking gone and living in another city and life will never, ever be the same. Even if I move back here someday, it’ll never be the same again.

Every time I wish it was the weekend (and I often wish it was the weekend), I’m losing time. Every weekend that comes up is one closer to my move date.

I went and grabbed my laptop this morning and am ostensibly working from home. By which I mean I’m logged in to my team’s Slack chat and at some point I’ll probably peck away at a blog post. But I’ve spent the last hour and a half looking up scholarships for school, many of which I’m ineligible for (and many of which will require me to get straight A’s during my first year). Also, crying. Lots of crying.

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At some point I need to sit down with my parents and figure out how much money they’ll be helping me with, which will mean having a budget in place. I have to figure out whether I can afford a new bed, desk, and chair. I haven’t been organizing my apartment as much as I planned to, so I still have clutter lying around that needs to go. It feels like there’s just so much to do and that I’m running out of time.

Right now, moving cities and going to school seems like a fucking awful idea full of a lot of pain and sadness and anxiety.