Same s***, different year

I’m finding it hard to pinpoint how I feel.

This morning I cried as I packed up my belongings. I left tear stains on Robby’s tee shirt.

Still.

Still, as Bubbles cruised down those oh-so-familiar country roads, my feelings changed. I know this! I know where we’re going! my conscience screamed.

And now I’m here. Sitting under my same sheets, different bed. Same stuff, different room. Same me, different me…?

I have reached an age where I can clearly remember four years ago. My sophomore year of high school. I wore my fishnet-print skirt (…and I still wear it…four years later…), teal tank top, teal footless tights and my Emily The Strange flip flops for the first day of school.

See? Crystal clear.

Now I’m going to be a sophomore in college. Holy shit. A sophomore in college. It may not sound like that significant of a feat, but this blogger is the youngest of four children and the only girl in the bunch. Jordan, Trevor and Adam have already done this. They’ve come and gone. It seems crazy to me that it’s my turn. I helped all three of them move into their different rooms/houses/apartments year after year. Being a sophomore in college sounded so old and sophisticated to me.

Guess I’m in their shoes now. I just thought it would take me longer to fill them.

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