When I could, it was good. At the time I felt I should.

Fuck.

So - I've just found out that I either need to cough up almost the same amount to buy a new ticket to London to change the date or I will need to leave next Thursday.

Of course, I'm going next Thursday. Wouldn't be quite 'me' if I didn't though right? Nothing I ever do seems to be rational, ever. I fucking knew that September felt too far away and it hadn't sunk it or felt right or real enough and that's always been floating in the back of my mind so when I found out that I am now leaving next Thursday I wasn't surprised. Startled, yes. Surprised, never. Not with my life.

I'm not going over for good this time or anything, I'm going to go over and pick up a ticket home once I've been there long enough to know what's going on, it'll probably be a two week stint but I would like to think that anything could happen with my life so I'm packing up most of my place this week. Seeing as though I'll be over there to look for places, etc - when I get back I don't think it will be for long anyway so packing is merely a precautionary for the fact that I might just fall into something over there and not want to bother coming back to pack when I can just get it stored.

My mind is so blown out by all of this so I insist that you excuse this bastardised effort to tell you about what is going on, I will make more sense of it later. I always seem to have trouble expressing the biggest moments of my life in writing because they are such intense tales and the small details are sometimes what I find most interesting anyway - but I thought it was probably necessary to explain because I keep getting asked.

So that's that. Back off again before even being home long. This time with 6 nights notice. New record.
I seriously love my life but it's a bit fucking rockstar sometimes.




Haha - oh poor little rich girl, right?