Last meal

Why does moving out feel a lot like driving down the street spur of the moment with some things I grabbed from my closet at random? What happened to freshman year, when my bags were packed a month in advance and I coordinated with my roommates to determine who would bring the blender and who would bring the measuring cups?

Honestly children, moving out is like NBD. Pack underwear and gum and a picture of your dog, and you'll be golden. Don't worry, you'll talk to your family every day when you call home to ask your mom how she always broils your grilled cheese chicken sandwich. You will also visit to drop off your laundry and ransack the food storage.

This is all inevitable.

When your parents wonder aloud why their year's supply suddenly looks like seven months, remember that you are still a good person who has not suffered death by hunger, and then become suddenly enthralled in the moles on your left arm.

I didn't even cry once when I first moved out, which for some reason surprised me. I have a heart of stone. Marble I'd guess, or maybe quartz.

Yesterday I moved out once more. Today I am typing these tender thoughts on the toilet, tearing myself apart with tantalizing taunts as to the true reason I took the ten-minute trip to the home-town not twenty hours since the initial transfer to tenancy.

The verdict? Not only was my apartment 8 trillion degrees, but I wanted a good last meal. When I told my family yesterday morning that I would be moving out yesterday evening, they were all like,

"A'ight." 

And then I consumed fend-for-yourself-style leftovers for dinner. Not that I have anything against leftovers, it just wasn't the good home-cooked family meal I hold so dear to my heart.

So today I returned and my mom was all like,

"A'ight"

and my brothers were all like,

"Why are you here?"

And then we had dinners. This time was much better. We ate all together. Leftovers.

Hint taken, family. I'll leave now. I realize it is time to be a big person and cook for myself. I made a 50-serving-size batch of nasty-looking artichoke soup to freeze. Looks like leftovers for the next four months for me. Must run in the genes.