I'm caught off guard by how quickly time is moving. It's July already, for Christssakes. I looked through my picture albums when I was living in my freshman dorm and felt like it was such a long time ago. Part of it--probably a large part--is thinking of L, because most of the time I lived there, I was dating her (or fantasizing about dating her). So thinking about my freshman year either evokes strong memories of panic, loneliness, and fear (and Lyle), or happy cold smoking kissing sleeping times with L. And, you know, the two weeks where I couldn't do anything but chain smoke and have my heart rate elevated for several days (no joke) when I was afraid she was gonna break up with me, the night she did break up with me, the problems we had being broken up, that weekend in May...

After one month passed after our breakup, I was sleeping in her bed. The next month, I wasn't even in the same state, so I guess that's progress. We were supposed to get together last Tuesday before I left and she totally blew me off. I texted her today and she was supposedly "giving me space." I am not certain whether this means she thinks I need space, or that she does. It occured to me that I have spent the past six months of my life somehow tangled up with this girl, and, honestly, for most of those months, the tangles have been fun, but not anymore.

Every time I get out of a relationship (and I know this happens to the majority of people), I try to look different, act differently, evaluate my life considering just me and not someone else. So far, the physical changes have involved me losing about ten pounds (due to stress and living with a raw vegan and having more time for spin class... all unrelated things) and cutting off most of my hair. I've also been looking at tattoos, and right now I know I want paw prints on my left foot, and am strongly considering e. e. cumming's "Buffalo Bill" between my shoulder blades. That poem introduced me to intellectualism, to put it broadly--the first time I really listened to a poem was in that classroom with Mary Molinary at a summer college program in Memphis. It was incredible. It started my love affair with literature and poetry. It symbolizes my appreciation for academia. And I've never heard of or seen another person with that particular poem tattooed on his or her body, though certainly some might exist (and this isn't a huge deal for me--the reason I picked the paw prints is because I saw a picture of somebody else with the same tattoo).

I am also wondering where I want to live when I graduate from school. Considering that will (hopefully) be eight years from now, it's not a huge concern, but I am thinking about where I'd like to end up in grad school. Visiting with my family made me realize how much I'll miss out on Ian's life if I move really far away, and even my sister's life. I'd like to be close to her as she experiences young adult life. I'm not sure what is feasible and what is not, but I am taking all things under consideration. Also, I have always lived in the suburbs and I do not like suburbia. My short-term housing goal, once I am out of the dorm, is to live within walking distance of grocery stores/other establishments. (This will also help me get in shape because hello produce is heavy.) I have also been thinking about going abroad. When I first got to Atlanta, the thought of even that was way too overwhelming to think about going to another country to study, ever, but I think it would be a very interesting experience, and I would probably gain something positive from it. Not sure what, but I am in favor of positive somethings. So I am thinking of Ireland and London (Oxford!) and possibly Scotland. The Dropkick Murphys and Mallory Davis's interest in Ireland has strangely influenced me. I think it would be cool to go somewhere my ancestors left. And I know that if I am in a relationship, I won't go. So I will have to see about this. (I am getting lonely but I ain't there yet.) But I am happy that I am considering it when a few months ago I was dead set against it. I have changed quite a bit in the last few months, though.

My mom gave me a really nice compliment as I was packing to leave her house (by "packing" I mean "throwing clothes and books and toiletries into the laundry basket I used as a suitcase"). She said, "Your father and I are really proud of you paying your own bills and being on your own. When we left, I didn't worry at all about you taking care of Ian." That made me feel good. I think when I first announced my plans to stay here, my mother felt a little abandoned, which was understandable. I was flattered that she (nortrious worrier) didn't spare a thought of worry about my ability handle whatever situation might arise (and trust me, they gave me power of attorney over both of my siblings--she thinks of everything). Before they left, I commented that I was glad I came because, with Ian's broken finger, it would be good for an adult to be around in case something came up. I'm not signing up for the parenting gig anytime soon, but I can succesfully put my needs aside to care for an almost five-year-old for a weekend. I have discovered that is basically what an adult is: someone who does shit they don't necessarily want to do, but need to do in order to keep food on the table and the roaches off the table and the utility bill paid and the kids happy. Living on my own has pushed me leaps and bounds to do these things. There's even a marked difference between when I came home for Christmas and this past weekend. My secret is that I never much liked being a kid and despite the breakups and high rent and roaches (did I mention those?) and fleas and loneliness and challenge, I really quite like being on the path to being an adult.