Today is officially my last day at work.

I'm actually going to miss a handful of people a lot.

Everyone else, as far as I'm concerned, is just a filthy cake-grubbing whore.

According to my graphic from yesterday,

tomorrow is now today and Wednesday is, in turn, tomorrow and tomorrow is my last day of work. I'm inclined to believe that it was this bit of information that caused me to spring out of bed and skip up the stairs into the shower at 5:30 this morning.

Okay. So. I am going camping. I have never been camping in my life. Sometimes, when people ask if I've ever been camping, I say that I have, but what I'm really referring to is the time I stayed in a cabin in Oklahoma when I was very young. The cabin had a full kitchen and two bathrooms, though (it also stands to be noted that I accidentally left my new blue crayon at that cabin. I think I cried the whole way home. I was tight with my crayons).

This time, however, I'll be sleeping in a sleeping bag inside a tent. I'm going because I think this is my last chance. If I don't go camping this Sunday, I may never be able to go camping ever again for the rest of my life (how often does the opportunity to camp come up?). Also, Angel with be there, along with our friends Vodka, Rum, And Tequila.

There will be a girl on this camping trip who is rumored to be painfully snobbish. It is my goal to out-snob her.

I will do whatever it takes. I will bring 6 different pairs of shoes and 4 different belts for the one-night stay ("Which combo says 'Trees are hot, but not so hot that I would actually touch one' more?"). I will bring my own cooler for my own personal top-shelf vodka. With it I think I'll bring a shaker and a martini glass ("Oh, no, I wouldn't drink your Smirnoff, but if I knick my knee I might need some to sanitize the wound."). I will bring an entire rucksack (because that's what you bring when you go camping, right? A rucksack?) full of Aveda and Kiehl's products ("I just don't know what this gorgeous, woodsy air might do to my skin and hair!").

Wait - I forget. Am I trying to out-snob her or out-gay her?

So I did not die this past weekend.

I may have spent a little extra quality time with the toilet bowl, but, much to my own disbelief, I did not die.

You might have thought that was too much information, but it wasn't. I could very easily have told you what color it was or what it tasted like. That would have been too much information.

In related news, I'm leaving in one week. To say that I'm packed and ready to move across the country would be akin to saying that I'm a mathematical genius or, for that matter, that I could even do simple multiplication. That's to say that it would be a bald-faced lie. I am not packed. I am not ready to go. If I talk about it too much, though, I'm going to either a) stop breathing or b) stop breathing. So, yeah.

In further related news, I've shortened my stay here at work by two days, bumping my final day up to Wednesday. For those of you who might need it broken down, I've created this schematic.

And here's the part where I do my little dance. For those of you who might need it broken down, I've created this schematic.

I've been trying all day.

I tried to write something witty about the gay hanky code.

I tried to write something articulate about my take on strength and weakness.

I also tried to avoid licking the Dorito residue off of my fingers.

I've failed on all counts.

I just want to get naked, crawl into bed and eat a snow cone.

In an attempt to justify

why I'd called my school advisor thirty-three minutes before my scheduled phone-in appointment I said, "I'm so sorry! I've been very busy at work and lost track of time - er, you know? In the opposite direction?"

She said, "Mhm. Right."

So, I might not be the most neatly folded scarf in the display, but I do have a bright and shiny new schedule for the fall semester. I'm only in class three days a week (Monday, Tuesday, and Friday) for a total of twelve and a half hours (my Art History Through the Fifteenth Century class, while I'm sure no less spontaneous-eyeball-removal inducing, is online and, thus, does not require me to be not naked).

This may or may not be the best time to discuss the fact that I'm most certainly going to be 43 by the time I get my BFA.

Okay, I'm over it.

I finally managed to have

an even slightly productive weekend. I have less than two weeks in front of me in which I have to find the time/energy to pack up my life once again and move, once again, to the west coast. In light of this, I forced myself up into the attic on Friday. I'm not sure that "attic" is the proper word to use, though, because, judging from how hot it was up there, it must actually be an open portal to Hades.

Some people look hot when they're soaked in sweat. I just look bedraggled.

Despite wanting to die a thousand times over, I settled myself down and started cutting open the boxes that contained all of my kitchen stuff. From this experience I ascertained two things: 1) I have too much kitchen crap and, 2) I know how to pack about as well as I know how to, say, pilot a jet plane or, I don't know, pleasure a woman.

I think one of the Great Unanswered Questions is "How many pairs of kitchen shears is too many?" I did the math. I played out all possible scenarios. I've come to a conclusion. Four pairs. Four pairs of kitchen shears is one pair too many. Rubber spatulas, though? You can never have too many rubber spatulas.

Now, my inability to pack was clearly evidenced by the innumerable broken glasses, plates, bowls and mugs I found. Much unlike learning to fly a jet plane or navigate a vagina, I feel like packing is a skill with which I'd really like to become a little more comfortable.

Then again, perhaps the broken glasses, plates, bowls and mugs are really just physical representations of the state of my heart when I was packing them all up.