Packing: Part III

ARGH.

Does that sum it up?

We have four bags (four!), and a guitar, and I haven't finished the carry-ons yet and we leave tomorrow at 17:45.

Also, I don't want to leave, and I will miss America terribly, and the culture shock will be horrible, and blah. But mostly ARGH.

A nostalgic post

Remember when:

'Come August' meant a time still far in the distant future.

Packing was the most stressful thing ever.

Walking 45 minutes to someone's house was quite normal.

My fangirling was confined to private conversations with consenting adults.

Coffee was a treat, rather than a necessity (no, me neither).

9 months looked more like 3 years and would never be over.

The aspect of America I was most excited about was pickles.

The idea of cooking dinner in the microwave horrified me.

My jeans were still too big. (Ouch- and I swore I wouldn't do the all American morbid obesity thing.)

I was scared about meeting new people because I didn't want to leave them. (Still painfully true.)

Travel was scary.

New York was nothing more than a movie backdrop.

Taking a cab was for RAs and the lazy.

Pepper spray and guns only existed on screen and in jokes.

A five hour flight was a big deal.

Cross-Atlantic travel was a big deal.

The library was for reference only.

Nothing could ever compare to first year / second year / last summer.

Graduating was scary.

I was convinced my options closed when I hit 23.

I couldn't make an F chord (nope, still can't).

Living with strangers scared me.

Worrying about keeping in contact with people stressed me out.

I was convinced my little brother couldn't grow up without me. (Still not entirely sure on this front.)

I was convinced I knew everything there was to know about living on my own.

I was convinced I would somehow prefer US law.

I would put the UK down at every opportunity, while defending the US tooth and nail.

I like the idea of the Constitution and the US Governmental structure.

All I had to worry about in any one day was how many skirts to pack.

I was going to have travelled the entire US by November.

I didn't really think of the Netherlands as anything other than a good example of a flexible marriage structure.

I didn't really think of Germany as anything other than 'where Cora is going.'

I was convinced I'd never see my friends from Exeter ever again ever.

I couldn't get on a plane without crying. (Still true.)

I was excited about American television. (Oh, dear.)

I didn't watch television unless DW was on.

I was going to come back with a thick US accent.

I was going to impress all the little American freshmen with my English accent (hmmm).

I was going to spend all my time outside.

Bloody scary.

Scriptwriting- a productive evil?

Emma Zunz is done. Finished. Finalised. Sent off. Many edits, spellchecks, and new characters later, I have handed in a completed 20 page play. (Single spaced, TNR, 12pt.) I actually now have two versions of the play- the stylistically correct, drama-student approved, 'audiences are idiots' version, and the over-punctuated, Borges fangirl, Professor-esque version. No prizes for guessing which one I handed in. At the end it seemed that I was walking a thin line between the demands of the drama students (bloodthirsty creatures, seriously) and the suggestions of my Borges-loving prof. I only broke down once, and that was when Borges original dialogue was struck down by the dramas for being 'too melodramatic.' Ah, well.
I don't honestly know what to do with myself now. On the one hand: woo, 2nd paper handed in and approved and out of my hair. On the other hand- Emma is my baby. The one I turn to when the Westboro Baptist Church and Southern Slave Laws are getting too much; the one I would never get bored of editing. Scriptwriting, it seems, is an addictive drug.
"So what did you do, JJ?" I hear you cry. (Nickname is laid entirely at Siobhan's doorstep, by the way. Bloody Criminal Minds.) Well, to be honest, I would hope that by now you'd know what I did. I started writing other things instead. You know, productive procrastination. Because a half-finished script with an implausible plot is going to get me so much further than a decent degree.
Right now I'm spending my leisure time on 'Stalker, a weird and wonderful concept which was developed during a late-night Facebook session in Doctor Who season. (Speaking of DW, consider this my Gaiman squeeing for the next week. OMG. OMG. OMG.) It's surprisingly fun to write, probably because it doesn't involve referencing homophobes or Nazis or ... anything. Exciting. Doing nothing for my remaining two papers, of course (I fricking hate papers. I somehow seem to think that were I back in Exeter I would concentrate better.), but there is seriously nothing more fun than writing fangirls. I think I may have found my calling. Now I simply need to get Abbi to inject 1) plot, and 2) humour.

Oh, and I short-circuited the power on our floor by trying to make coffee and cook dinner at the same time. Is this an American thing?