God I hate packing more than anything. If I have a horrible task to do that I don’t want to do, the best thing for me to do is to need to pack a suitcase, because I will do literally any horrible task in the world rather than pack. Explaining how my mum’s iPhone works to her? WOULD LOVE TO. Looking at my online banking statement? SURE WHY NOT? Sitting an exam in something I don’t understand, while surrounded by babies screaming, with the mother of all hangovers and a really fucking itchy label on the back of my jumper? OH GO ON THEN.

It’s partly an ‘omg I have so much stuff what is wrong with me’ thing. So I’m looking through, say, my skirts, and I’ve decided I need three skirts. A normal amount of skirts. That’s how many skirts any sane person needs to take with them for this designated time period. I can do this.

I look at my skirts.

‘But what about this one with the cute flower patterns on it. I like having that as an option in my life. What if I didn’t have it? Probs everything about myself would collapse because I couldn’t work out who I truly was. Better take it with me, just in case’

I despise this logic so much that it makes me feel sick with myself.

So I put off the packing for ever and ever until I can’t any more and then I’m so panicky about travelling anyway that I stress out and take too much stuff, like I was worried I would do in the first place.

Anyway I’m posting this after packing, after arriving at destination with a whole bunch of skirts plus some other important stuff that totally looks rad in my new room in Berlin. So I’m gonna stop moaning now.


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