In one week I’ll be in Naperville, Illinois. It will be 8 a.m. I will either be awake, rummaging through my parents’ freezer for bagels, or at the DMV retrieving my much-anticipated horizontal driver’s license. I still don’t think I fully realize the gravity of my departure; I also don’t think that sentence makes sense. Going home is permanent, not just a weekend visit. I’m freaking out about it, although my current state of severe sleep deprivation makes it easier to subdue the panic for a moment.

As of ~1 p.m. local time I’ve checked off the first of several important goodbyes, this one to Pedro. Our farewell proceeded the consumption of baked potatoes the size of 10-pound babies, Silent Bob en español and a win for the Phoenix Suns. I was instructed not to cry. Although I wasn’t completely capable of complying with this request, I managed to mostly keep my shit together. Pedro pointed out that if I’m struggling now, a week before I even leave for the airport, I’m going to be a wholly dysfunctional disaster come 7 a.m. Friday morning at the Aeropuerto Sevilla. I tend to agree.

Now it’s almost 3:30 p.m. here. I’m still in pajamas, and the alarming amount Tori Amos coming from my iTunes (“From the Choirgirl Hotel” and “Little Earthquakes”?!?! Christ) is a testament to my dire need (and fervent desire) for a siesta. Finals? Essays? Packing? That’s what next week is for.

note– this blog is being published post-siesta, due to an unexpected Internet failure at the intended press time of 3:30 p.m.