If I love you, I'm going to do it semi-automatically.

It doesn't seem to matter where I am. Leaving is always hard.

My drafting table and my teak coffee table are in pieces on my living room floor. My clothes are everywhere. Viola, my first plant, is joining my father and I for the trip. We're sneaking the relic Royal typewriter into the car with us without my mother's knowledge. I get custody of the sheep's wool rug. My incredibly emo high school art portfolio has finally been dredged up from the depths of my closet. I have more stuff than I thought, but it will all fit.

I am being uprooted. I am uprooting myself. I don't live here anymore. I've been saying it for months now: I live in Victoria. This is my home. And it is. And when I think of what I'm going home to, who I'm going home to, I know I won't miss it. But, you know, I have a strange, masochistic, self-loathing affinity for this place, which I don't really like to admit. Nineteen years in one city is a long time. I'll miss the skyline at night the most.