I am now almost fully packed, if not fully prepared, for relocating my life. My walls are almost bare, my desk drawers empty, most of my bed linens packed away, and I am, of course, once again aware of how very much *crap* I've accumulated in my life. Yeesh. I suppose I'm thankful that most of it hadn't the opportunity to settle into the nooks and crannies of my room, we've lived here for so short a time, but there was a peculiar finality to relocating everything into boxes and bags, nonetheless.

I can't believe I'm moving again. Necessary, I guess, since I really don't want to work at Barnes & Noble for the rest of my life---and, more importantly, I rather *do* want to be a children's librarian for the rest of my life---but everything feels so unreal. As if I'm writing my own story rather than living it.

I keep telling myself that by this time next week, I won't be sitting in this room or listening to my family or petting my dog. I won't be meeting Cyrano at work or for coffee at IHOP until 3am. I won't know the names of the streets or where to shop for groceries or whether I'll be glad to go to work the next day. But I can't quite believe it.

And yet, at the same time, I'm already feeling rather lonely and scared and that I've a hundred million loose ends to tie up.

I hate growing up.

.........................