I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.

I’m approaching a rare moment that not everyone is so lucky to encounter. It’s the sort of moment that I statically yearn for, quietly hoping for an entire upset to the status quo. I am “getting away from it all.” And the only way to do that, for me, is to abandon all familiarity for an extended period of time.

I forged this opportunity back in July when my travel bug was feeling extra antsy. I addressed the itch by booking a solo trip to Paris for an entire month. I leave in three weeks and the reality of this crazy, slightly stupid, bold decision is settling in.

Preparation for my departure looks like letting go. I’m combing through my possessions to get rid of what I’ve slowly accumulated over the course of having lived in one spot for a whopping year and a half (!!) for the first time in…a decade? I want to return with the opportunity to leave again; the fewer things I have, the more manageable my entire life is. I’m throwing things away, addressing the sewing pile, donating what’s still good, and making honest assessments about how precious my precious junk really is.

This week I am facing one final paper. If all goes according to plan, it will be my last act as a Master’s student. I am still awaiting my final grade for my capstone project (it’s like a thesis, but shorter in scope and completed over a smaller period of time). My only possible approach to the next five days is to hold my breath that I’ve passed everything. If not, then I’m still a student for another four months. I’m not nervous, you’re nervous.

Work at the restaurants is winding down as my last schedules before the Great Departure are being released. I don’t know what my career will look like once I’m Master Liz, but I am thankful for positive relationships with managers who aren’t interested in firing me upon hearing the news that I’m ditching town for five weeks.

I will first leave for Los Angeles in time for Christmas with the family. After a week of embarrassing stories, familiar faces, and nephew-wrestling, I fly directly to Paris. I’ll stay in my own apartment, complete with private rooftop and a view of the Eiffel Tower. I get one month before I step back into reality via Montgomery, Alabama. What better way to cap a Master’s degree in International Relations than to have a quarter-life crisis in France?

One month. Of French fries, French kisses, the French-Indian War, Dawn French, and I-see-London-I-see-France. I don’t expect some profound journey of self-discovery but I do expect to be reduced to sobs when a particularly impatient French bulldog makes fun of my attempt at their language. I don’t expect to uncover the meaning of life but I do expect to be a little bored and a medium amount of lonely.

And I can’t wait. Here’s hoping I actually passed all that schoolwork.

I’m thirty-something thousand feet closer to space right now and my best guess is that we’ll touch down in about thirty minutes, but I don’t care enough to pay to check.

My final act in Montgomery was to scream hysterically at Rebekah as the only logical response to the giant bug I had noticed chilling comfortably in her hair. I thought it was a spider and immediately jumped out of the car to escort the sneak off my friend’s head. The hysteria capped the end of a long morning of nursing a hangover. The hours I should have spent meticulously going over my luggage and tidying up my room were instead spent sipping on ginger ale and telling Maple I love her. I left with my room a mess and my sheets in the dryer. Don’t worry: I did, indeed, manage to shower. You’re welcome, fellow passengers.

I’m on my way to Glendora for one week of Christmas with my family before I fly direct to Paris. I have everything I’m taking with me in the compartment above my head. I’m proud of my minimalist packing job but kicking myself for forgetting a power bank and headphones. I paid a lot of money for airport headphones so Michelle Obama could tell me more about her life.

Earlier this week I completed my Master’s degree in International Relations and several hours later I burned the bajeezus out of my face. My new acne medicine quite ironically makes my skin more sensitive, and that apparently includes to eyebrow wax. To further highlight my newfound fountain of intelligence, I burned myself again later that same day when I surrendered all self control to a bite of still-boiling baked feta. The burn on the roof of my mouth is now mostly healed, but friends are still calling me Harry Potter for the forehead burn (a nickname I am completely relishing).

Master’s degrees, evidently, pair handily with first degree burns.

The captain just announced we’re close, which is obvious from Southern California’s characteristic glitter from it’s urban sprawl. Flying into Los Angeles at night will never not be breathtaking. I’m lucky to get to do it several times a year.

One final thought before I let you get back to your memes: I am surrounded by the most supportive, loving, funny, intentional people. I have been bid adieu like I am dying. You people need to quit saying such nice things to me because I just don’t deserve it.

My hope is to record something for every day I’m in France, be it on here or Instagram (<a hred=”http://www.instagram.com/redpointeshoe”>@redpointeshoe</a>, <a href=”http://www.instagram.com/captainlizkurtz”>@captainlizkurtz</a>). Prepare for me to not shut up.

I love you.