Would You Just Man Up Already?

PROTIP: Tuna straight out of the can satisfies your hunger AND gets your roommate to call you a cat for two years.

And there you have it. Yet another wistful end-of-an-era transition, though this one was tougher than most. This dingy, overpriced, ant-infested house with cotton candy for insulation was the first place in which I've lived for more than one year since I moved away from mom's nest. It was also especially difficult leaving one of the best roommates I've ever had. I mean, it's pretty hard to beat coming home at midnight in snowy January to fresh, warm apple pie on the dining table. (Let's face it - I'm a cheap date and food wins me over easily. HEY LADIES.)



I left my job at the ER at the end of May and then promptly hopped on a plane to South Beach to turn my own liver into foie gras by eating ALL OF THE THINGS with the Julia Child to my inner Jacques Pepin, AKuan. (h/t: AKuan for that perfect description of our relationship.) Now, I had booked this trip way back in March, but of course the comedy gods had to throw in that wrench by starting the zombie apocalypse in Miami THE DAY BEFORE I WOULD ARRIVE. And last I checked, Rick Grimes was still stuck on I-85 somewhere. Fortunately, walkers didn't start popping up left and right, and the beginning of my month-long travel binge went just dandy. My only lasting scars are a USSR-shaped sunburn on my left shoulder (because neither AKuan nor I know the definition of "apply liberally") and an additional ten pounds. Hey Jenny Craig call me maybe.

Upon returning from Miami/NYC/NYC again/Philadelphia/Pittsburgh/Hershey/"NYC AGAIN?!", I slowly packed my things over a few days. My packing sessions, which largely consisted of putting three books into a box and calling it a day, were interspersed with bouts of cramming my foodhole with delicious pork products at The Pig or making my liver cry at Madhatter. I sure am glad to be back home in California for the moment, because I think my liver is now worth more than four years' worth of tuition at Creighton. We all know that the foie gras ban on the Golden Coast is bound to create some hilariously elitist black market for the stuff, operated and enforced by a mafia headed by Anthony Bourdain. (And Adam Richman will make a killing as a mule, shuttling duck livers stuffed in his butt from Arizona to LA.)

People get older, but some things never change. My penchant for procrastination-induced chaotic panic will haunt me forever. If you had come into my basement in those final few hours before the new tenant moved in, you would have seen me literally tossing my crap into a box while muttering, "What is this? When the hell did I buy this? Whatever, I'll worry about it later."

And, with damn near every square inch of my car filled with my belongings (I couldn't see out my rear window), I made the long drive by myself from The District to Omaha. It was lonely at first, but then my co-pilot, a rice cooker stacked on top of two duffel bags and a pillow who I eventually named Wilson, started some super deep conversations with me. This accidental soul-searching taught me some life-affirming lessons about myself as well as the diversity of the cultures in this awesome country of ours. I now know that Sonic makes the worst burgers in America. Also, taking four apples and three banana nut muffins from the COMPLIMENTARY breakfast bar at the Microtel in South Bend, Indiana is not kosher. Look, I'm not exactly the deepest person out there, all right?

Three more weeks until I once again start up my biweekly school-induced panic attacks. I keep telling myself that it hasn't really hit me yet, but unfortunately I suspect that when it DOES hit me at orientation, I will need to use AstroGlide. Liberally.