Rudbeckia (nerdanelthenerd) wrote,
Rudbeckia
nerdanelthenerd

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Who chaffed Private Ryan?!

I will miss this city with every artery, ventricle and vein: take care of it while I'm gone.

I have packed far too much stuff. I'd treat you all to an exhaustive inventory, but frankly, it's too embarrassing. When I move into Murano Street tomorrow (TOMORROW), everyone else will laugh so hard at my special dictionary-crate and brand new crockery I probably won't need. Everyone Else, you see, is effortlessly beautiful and low-maintenance in a hip sort of way. All Everyone Else needs for university is a toothbrush and a fliptop mobile phone with an obnoxious, Cyclopic little camera attachment. Everyone Else's primary concerns are not "oooh, should I start German just for the hell of it?" and "shit, I hope the internet works straightaway". Everyone Else has spent her Gap Year travelling the world and actually speaking the language she's going to study for her degree. Everyone Else is not secretly dreading Freshers' Week: she loves drinking! It's so fun and totally not nauseating, expensive and pointless!

I know. It sounds like I've just spent this year shuffling along a path crazy-paved with virtuously social intentions, only to find myself standing exactly where I was last year. Negativity is my worst, and most comfortable, habit. Perhaps part of me thinks that as long as there is something petty for me to complain about, things can't be all that bad. I like to call this my "insecurity blanket" because I'm so brilliant.

Soft, warm, familiar whining aside, I'm more than ready to do this. Returning to education, to learning, to training up my mind: I can't wait to overcome my rustiness. Oh and new people fun etc whatever. I may seem convinced that I won't function in Glasgow unless I bring with me my entire lip balm collection, my old Latin textbook, all my Frasier DVDs and six pictures of my brother, but I'm much tougher than I act.

This is what the past looks like.


Important books that have been loved to death are sandwiched in between the brown souvenir bundles and chronologically-ordered folders. Please ignore the bluish tinge of my not-actually-deformed, no-seriously, it's-just-the-shoestraps feet but do acknowledge how cool and impractical my shoes are. (Emma, somewhere in there, I still have Ahmed's half-melted Private Ryan and Mr Papathanassiou.)

I just preemptively changed the location on my profile. Why? In case I can't access LJ to change it as soon as I get there, and a period of time might pass in which random browsers of my journal would think I was still in Edinburgh and wouldn't be able to stalk me successfully. So. Lame.
Tags: insecurity, nostalgia, rites o' passage
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