I know what international moving is.
International moving is when I stomp around my room, hit my wall, pull at my hair and scream at the top of my lungs out of pure frustration.
I leave in two weeks. AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH I WANT TO EXPLODE EVERYTHING. IF MY EYES COULD LIGHT THINGS ON FIRE WHEN INFURIATED THEN I WOULD BE SUCH A FIRE HAZARD RIGHT NOW.
That is all for now. I'm going out tonight, so I'm trying to deal with more things now, and it keeps putting me into full-out temper tantrums. Awesome.
Kiwi, a mess at DiaCon? Oh no, of course not...
(Lies. I'm sorry, anyone who has to put up with meeting me on the 21st, I am going to be a Trelawney. I am going to be one frazzled, non-seeing sonofacrup. I forgive you in advance for hating me. Hopefully by the 22nd I will be a little less Sybill-travel-mad and a little more Kiwi Mad.)
"Listen, why don't you save yourself years of sexual ambiguity and get fitted for a pair of Doc Martens and a plaid flannel shirt?"
[Stewie; Family Guy]