The Change-Over

Time flies.

Summer is rapidly coming to a close, which means my time in Dublin is dwindling. I can't even talk about it. Haven't been sleeping well. Been going to bed at six in the morning, then spending most of the day under the covers, waking and falling back into nightmares. It's the separation anxiety. Haven't had the stamina to go out, do much of anything. The only thing I've been doing for myself is cooking. Last night, I made falafel and wild mushroom risotto and warmed some pita (or, as they call it here, pitta). Tonight, I plan on making pasta with pesto, fresh tomatoes, and bits of rosemary and sun-dried tomato sausage. Emotional distraction through eating? This was meant to be my second Weekend of Film. There's a big pile of DVDs just lying there, on my night stand, begging to be watched. But I can't even do that. The other day, after lunch, I was asked if I was okay. There was something in my face, something in the way I was silent and pensive and obvious. And I smiled and nodded and said, "Yeah," even though I was clearly lying--through my teeth, through that fake, sad smile of mine--because I can't even talk about it. Can't put it into words. The linguistic equivalent of this is failing me. How do you describe what leaving does? How do you describe the physical attributes of impending loss? Choking. That's part of it. Feeling like I can't swallow. Crying uncontrollably. Being a mess, in general. It's not even poetic. Just shit, shit, and more shit.

I'm trying to enjoy it, though. Despite everything, I'm trying to enjoy my last days here. What else is there to do? Last weekend, for my birthday, my roommate's boyfriend cooked everyone dinner. I was under the impression he was only making quesadillas and homemade guacamole, but then he announced the main course: penne alla vodka. One of my all-time favorite dishes, so imagine the happiness. Now multiply that happiness by a million when you throw in a chocolate cake covered in flakes of milk, dark, and white chocolate, a Cadbury double chocolate bar, and chocolate truffles. Sometimes, people surprise you with their ability to be wonderful. Afterwards, I met up with some like-minded fun fiends, and we managed to make the best out of a bad DJ at Whelans. And even though social law proclaims all 21-year-olds must get fall-down-on-your-ass-silly drunk on their birthdays, I drank responsibly. Blame it on thirst, but in between all the J&Cs, I somehow managed to down a pint-and-a-half of water. By the time we got to Charlie's (greasy, overpriced Chinese food joint no one in their right mind would ever walk into sober), whatever inebriated state I'd been in had turned to one of immense exhaustion.

The rest of the weekend was great. I'm not going to divulge, so you'll just have to take my word for it: pretty damn great.

Right now, it's raining like the sky's life depends on it. This would be all fine and dandy if I'd planned a night in. But I haven't. I know I should just gather up my shabby umbrella, grin, and bear it, but damn if I'm not considering spending a night glued to my computer screen. It's not going to happen (I will persevere!), but if only today wasn't a constant reminder of having a mere two weeks left to socialize and party and do all things brilliant in Dublin...

And we've come full-circle.