תֵּבַת נֹחַ

I have 40 (technically 39) days left in this country. I have two papers, three finals left.

I've downloaded podcasts from NPR and KGO newstalk 810. The closer I get to leaving, the more anxious and homesick I get. What will I get everyone for souvenirs? What will I do before I say goodbye? Will I miss this place? Will I miss the people I've met? What about facebook and skype and twitter and working out and capoeira and losing and gaining weight...

On Noah's Ark, I'm sure the animals were sick, cold, and wondering when that goddamn rain would end. I'm sure Noah got a little too tired of playing ye-olde solitaire and talking about the unchanging weather. Shem probably mastered knitting and basket weaving.

I'm restless. I've been listening to Christmas music, hoping with all my heart that time will speed up.

As I mentioned in my last blog post, people have been calling this place home. They mention their flats and places of interest with fondness. I'm looking forward to the years of therapy my first flat will surely give me. I am permanently scarred by their apathy and outright hatred of me. I question now whether people really like me, or if they're just smiling for the sake of it.

I hate them. I feel justified in using that word.

They have made me question whether anybody loves me. That is not okay.

I am a Scrippsie. I am Californian. You can take me out of America, but you can't take America out of me. I've become so grateful for my group of friends back at home, for the Hooligans, for my family.

Nothing I've done here compares to them. Being away from them hurts me. I want to see the sun again. I want to lie on my deck with Eva and Elisa and Andrea. I want to snuggle up to my boyfriend as he reads the New Yorker. I could never, ever live here.

A month and 8 days. That's all.