Dear friends,

I’ve been wanting to write something for quite a few days. But every time I’ve sat down to write (including now), I haven’t quite had the words to describe what I’m feeling, what I want to say. It’s frustrating.

It’s probably because I’m not sure where I’m at. I’m all over the place. Not in a bad way, necessarily. It’s just…the end of college sort of snuck up on me. I knew it was coming; I was waiting for it—that impending change, all those endings, all those goodbyes. I spent so much energy bracing myself for it, that it’s almost as if when the time finally arrived, I missed it. And now, seemingly out of no where, I sit with 7 days until I leave my childhood home for good (and I mean for good, the rents sold the house).

I haven’t really done anything to prepare for it either. Today, for instance. I spent the afternoon making an elaborate homemade pasta sauce and watching Grey’s Anatomy. Forget all those empty boxes waiting for me, ready to categorize my life as I’ve known it thus far into 3 categories: take to NYC, put into storage, and garbage. For all of the expelled emotions and monumental life realizations I’ve had in that little room, laden with University of Michigan sentiments and punk rock propaganda, it seems so silly that it all can be boiled down into 3 simple categories. C’est la vie.

What’s really going on here is immense melancholic nostalgia. Don’t get me wrong, it’s all good. This girl couldn’t be more eager to take this next step to prove to everyone (but mostly herself) how much she will kill it in the city. I just wish I knew the right way to end things here. The right way to say goodbye. Because I don’t want to miss it. And I don’t want to miss anyone. The last thing I want is to look back and wish that I had ended this chapter in a different way. I don’t want to regret not saying what I needed to say, seeing who I needed to see, hugging who I needed to hug.

I suppose it’s sort of like ending a play. You have to do it right, otherwise…what was the point of it to begin with?

I need to stop being so dramatic. It’s not like I’m dying. (Knock on wood)

xo
E 

I’m writing a new play. It’s called “EBB and FLO.” It’s about two method actresses writing a book on the human personality.

Here’s to hoping it’s my ticket into Yale’s playwriting MFA. 

xo

Dear tumbros,

I think I will start posting on the Moscow blog again. Because, hey, there are 900 more productive things for me to be doing with my time (seeing that I’m graduating college in, oh, 4 weeks) and therefore writing sounds like a WONDERFUL idea all of a sudden. I’m so typical.

So listen. I was reading through old blog entires due to intense narcissism (jk just nostalgia/procrastination) and I came across this little tidbit:

Brooklyn has been so wonderful to me. It welcomed me with open arms and I felt at home from the moment I got here. It was kinda like Moscow in that way—the adjustment period was easy, the energy was just right. It felt like there was no “where” before this, like I was coming home. The bumps and grinds of city life were automatically in tune with the pattern of my heart, and it was easy to love every stranger on the train, every missed connection in a sideways glance, every flirty baby splashing in the Washington Square fountain. The trees in Prospect Park, whispering to me with every breezy afternoon spent reading there, reminded me that there’s worse things than being alone.