The busiest day of my life was probably the day I moved out of my dorm, a.k.a the last day of freshmen year. Being the forgetful procrastinator i am, I basically left half of shit I needed to pack for the morning, which gave me about two fucking hours before my flight home at noon. The details are kind of blurry now, but I remember the alarm jerking me awake at around 8.30 a.m., me ignoring it and going back to sleep for another hour, my roomie telling me to wake the fuck up, and then chaos. A lot of running around, a lot of screaming, a lot of cussing. Brushing teeth, stripping off bed sheets, pulling clothes out of the hangers, piling as many layers as I could onto my body, chucking hangers into the trash can, shoving books and shoes into bulging suitcases.
All that was done with about ten minutes to go. Then my roomie reminded me that I needed to find a Residential Assistant for room inspection. And it was at that point I glanced at my desk and saw all the stupid fucking Brandy Melville stickers I had plastered all over. Paranoia escalated. I attacked my desk with vehemence, ripping and scratching at the stickers like a fucking vulture. How I passed inspection I had no clue. How I made it to the airport I had no clue. On the whole thirty minute ride to JFK, I kept swearing to myself that I would never leave everything last-minute again. But who the fuck was I kidding? Procrastination is in my blood.