My room just like what's inside my head is a strange amalgam of used and clean clothes, books, lollipop wrappers, scribbled paper, cigarette foil, and the occasional pore strip. At the corner is the most unsightly stuff of all --- that huge suitcase.
The last seven days I have attempted (and failed miserably) to spin counterclockwise for angular momentum. (Thanks but no thanks, xkcd, that really didn't work.) I now have less than 48 hours to pack and fill that suitcase and sort things out. As always, I hate packing. As always, I feel like I don't want to go anywhere.
It is incredible that I have considered this place home. If I had been told that 3 years ago, I would have laughed outright. But it is home now. This place with its paradoxically pink walls ---aaaargh---- has seen the best and worst of me and I just hate to leave. Sure, I'll come back and when I get there I wouldn't probably miss this place much but this place's inertia just holds me back. Just these past seven days, I have always suppressed that hard lump in my throat which will eventually lead to tears because of the thought of leaving.
What a little heartbreak this is.
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