I cannot update or delete my interests in my userinfo. I cannot delete friends (if I added you, apparently you are there for good. How optimistic, this view of companionship). I cannot bring myself to unpack that last suitcase, tonight. I cannot wait, cannot, for three (point-five) months to pass, when I never have to set foot in this room again. Never sleep on another loft bed. Never share another inch of closet space. Everything that seemed to fit so neatly two months ago now seems to swell from every drawer, every corner, and every cubby of my hanging shoe unit. Why did I not bring more home, and leave it there? Why do I need all these shirts? I am feeling very simplistic, lately, coming down off of twelve straight hours of (NOT ANOTHER DRUG REFERENCE), ten of which were spent talking, soul-searching, meaningful, philosophical talking, with my beautiful future roommate. Two trips across campus to seven-eleven. I chain-smoked nearly a full pack of Reds. My fingers are stained. This has never happened before. Two yellow spots, like a string tied to remember. Come-downs, hurt, and issues of trust. I am glad to say that all is well. All is well.