As a man named Jorg was sifting through my things and making me various offers on my belongings, it hit me. I really am leaving. He ended up buying my trashcan of all things, I sold it to him for $10. Now I don’t have a trashcan.
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I am in a state of panic. Not about leaving my apartment or job, but about saying goodbye to people. I usually go out of my way to NOT say goodbye to people, even (to my immense shame) to my friend who passed away last year. I know I will be back, I know I will be here for visits. But its not the same now, is it?
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I am excited about the future. I have applied to such a variety of things to work on. I have decided to study for the NYC Guide Licensing Exam (not easy!). Last night I applied to work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art as a visitor coordinator and as a VP of Ops for a travel company. It’s stunning to me how radically different my choices are. What road lies ahead?
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I have never moved myself, with anything more than a car full of crap. My moves to and from Amsterdam were completely orchestrated by the company. I didn’t pack a thing. Lift a thing. Move a thing. Bliss. I look around my apartment at my stuff and it already feels like I am sitting on someone else’s couch. Last night I was careful not to spill. Where do I get boxes??