don't let the sun catch you crying
This is a night of lasts. Last night on American soil. Last night of American TV (oddly enough, there's nothing on.) Last night in my (okay, Rona and Chao Ahn's too) apartment with the hardwood floors and the bookshelves in the living room. Last night at home. Last night before I become a foreigner.
Last night with Marc for a long, long time.
My suitcases are packed and waiting by the door, both of them crammed full of clothes, toiletries, anything else I could legally take with me. I have a little folder that contains my passport, my boarding passes, my visa, all ready to go. I've said my goodbyes or will be saying them tomorrow at the airport. This is really happening. I leave tomorrow morning, have a layover in Newark, and then it's straight on till Saturday morning.
Is it too late to take it all back?
Okay, yes, I know, I have to go. And I want to go. I'm just having a little bit of pre-trip jitters. After all, I am flying to France tomorrow. Where I don't speak the freaking language. And once I find my Slayer, it's on to England from there. Where I will be living for at least the next six months. And maybe longer.
I will not break out in a fit of histrionics. I will not break out in a fit of histrionics. I will not break out in a fit of histronics.
Argh . . . not helping. I wonder if it's bad form to leave your boyfriend at your apartment while you track down something to kill.
Last night with Marc for a long, long time.
My suitcases are packed and waiting by the door, both of them crammed full of clothes, toiletries, anything else I could legally take with me. I have a little folder that contains my passport, my boarding passes, my visa, all ready to go. I've said my goodbyes or will be saying them tomorrow at the airport. This is really happening. I leave tomorrow morning, have a layover in Newark, and then it's straight on till Saturday morning.
Is it too late to take it all back?
Okay, yes, I know, I have to go. And I want to go. I'm just having a little bit of pre-trip jitters. After all, I am flying to France tomorrow. Where I don't speak the freaking language. And once I find my Slayer, it's on to England from there. Where I will be living for at least the next six months. And maybe longer.
I will not break out in a fit of histrionics. I will not break out in a fit of histrionics. I will not break out in a fit of histronics.
Argh . . . not helping. I wonder if it's bad form to leave your boyfriend at your apartment while you track down something to kill.