There really isn't much to be done, in all honesty. I just have to -- pick things up. Throw things away. Put the things I'm not throwing away into suitcases and bags, and find a home for my minifridge and potentially also my television. Get myself to my grandparents in time for dinner. It's one thirty, and all of these things are, if I'm being honest, doable.

And yet, gentle readers, and yet. I feel as though I've been asked to walk across broken burning glass into the gaping maw of hell. There's dragging your feet and procrastinating on something, and then there's me and packing. I always put it off to the last minute, but this -- this --

It would be safe to say that I own a lot of things. It would also be safe to say that I am now realizing why owning a lot of things is not really the right way to live as a human being in this world. From here on out, I am renouncing all material posessions.

I am going to live in a cave. I am going to think deep philosophical thoughts in that cave. I am going to wander out from time to time, to say cryptic things to passers by and hopefully set them on quests. I may, or may not, contrive to own a bratchet and chase a white hart into a banquet hall.

I will know the location of the Sangreal. I will eat nuts and berries and stare at the stars.

I will last five days at most in this new existence before I come crawling back, clutching my books and dvds tightly to my chest and telling them sorry, I'll never leave them again.

Packing isn't hard. I get that packing isn't hard. I get that it's something that one must just do.

But, I'd really rather sit on the middle of the floor, through back my head and scream until someone brings me my ice cream and a My Little Pony and potentially does it for me while I nap.

Yesterday I was fifteen, and today I am five. Tomorrow I expect to be a fetus.

Oh, dear God, this just occurred to me: I have to get my stuff out of the kitchen too. There's a new level of terror I hadn't previously really thought possible.