"I think we just lost Engine Four....."

So today, I got a lovely bottle of muscato wine for The Boss, track pants for sleeping in, and have officially started freaking out about leaving.

No, scratch that.

I'm freaking out about everything.

I realized this when I found myself hanging up on the travel agent before I could finalize the details of my flight.

Before this I was perfectly happy to just faff about and figured "Aaahh, it'll sort itself out". Packing? A cinch. Just throw everything in a bag, it's just a more clothes-heavy version of the way I usually pack. I've packed with a taxi waiting outside the door with barely half an hour to final check-in. This can't be that much harder. It's just a bigger bag and more clothes. And more shoes than I normally pack for a vacation.

But then today reality just blindsided me. I'm leaving. For five years. Count them One two threefourfive. That's a hell of a lot of years to leave everything behind.

And I don't even have a place to stay. Because the great machine of incompetence that is the Australian administrative system has determined that I should be held in limbo until I actually get there, then they'll see what I can do. I've been looking at property listings, but given that a place named "Willagee" could be on the Moon as far as I'm concerned, I'm clueless as to determine what's a good neighbourhood and what's not. And god help me, the people who are looking for flatshares could be anybody at all.

And my common sense tends to go right out the window when I see listings like "owner has Russian Blue Kitten" or "Must like dogs. Owner has two German Shepherds" because those facts seems to overwhelm other, much more important concerns, such as the fact that the house is in the middle of Whoop Whoop and appears to be furnished like Sing Sing. Not to mention my parents' belief that anyone who advertises in places like this must be some sort of axe-wielding maniac who will murder me in my bed one night as I sleep cuddled up to some massive German Shepherd. Actually, according to my parents' way of thinking, I'll probably be fed to the German Shepherds after I'm murdered, thus cleverly foiling the police who will be unable to find my poor mutilated body. To me though, when I see that these houseowners have pets, all that flashes across my animal-addled forebrain are the neon words "Insta-pet!!", accompanied by some fireworks and cartwheels.

That's another thing that's freaking me out. My parents. They are freaking out and it's freaking me out, and yes, I know I'm using the words 'freaking out' a lot, but you would too, so just shut up and read.

It's kind of sweet that they're so concerned, their concern is driving me absolutely crazy. It's my fervent belief that they believe that if they didn't intervene, I'd be living out of a cardboard box behind the university canteen and sharing weed created in a lab with some Rastafarian Pharmaceuticals students. My mother calls me twice a day to ask me about my flight, the money I have. My father tag-teams and asks me EVERY DAY about where I'm going to stay, never mind that I've told him a dozen times already that I don't have fixed accomodation yet and I'm going to be staying with The Raj (god bless her med-geek heart, I love you babe and owe you big).

On th plus side, things have gotten to the point where they actually have to TALK to each other.

My mother has even told me she wants to come with me for the first few days. The thought fills me unspeakable terror. Don't get me wrong, I love my mother. But we drive each other crazy. We're just a bit too alike, I think. Hard-headed, opinionated, absolutely, utterly convinced that we are right. And liable to blow up at the drop of a hat. I have never spent prolonged periods of time with my mother alone, save for when I was too young to remember it and had no personality to speak of anyway. The idea of spending whole days with her while I am still reeling from having left behind my entire life just gives me the heebie-jeebies. And I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SMOKE.

Oh. God.

That being said I share their concerns. I have these visions of frantically looking for a place to stay and finding none which are suitable and having to settle for a place which is so far away from the university that I'll have to wake up at 5 am, saddle up a cow to ride out to the nearest township before I take fifteen million buses to get to school, the timing of said buses being so precise that being late by even a minute (because Bessie caught a stone in her hoof) will cause a catastrophic domino effect so that I will be doomed to forever miss the first class of every single day for the rest of my time in Australia.

It's either that or I'll be stuck in a teeny tiny little hovel where beer cans litter the floor and I flatshare with five frat boys who think it's a great idea to run around out tiny flat wearing my red polka dotted thongs over their heads when they're high and drunk, and then take turns relieving themselves on my laptop.

Ngngnngngngngngng.

I'll be leaving the Boy behind for five years, Five years! I'll be gone more than I will be here. The airport may be the last time I ever see him. I could hear the dreaded words uttered by Fucking C*** Men everywhere, i.e., "Babe, it's just not working. That's just the way it is.". Deja vu! Because really, who am I kidding, five years? Who the fuck waits for five years? (no, don't answer that) And though I'll hate myself for it, you'll hear the sound of my heart shattering after that phone call, even over the sound of me breaking and entering so that I can steal all his damned Zara shirts and give them to the Salvation Army.

And who, pray tell, is going to take care of my Tesh? Who's going to painstakingly groom all the mats out of her fur and check her for ticks and brush her teeth (okay okay, I only sporadically brush her teeth) and take her to the vet and bring her for walks and smack her when she needs to be and blow in her face and make strange noises so her ears go all perky and chase her around and drape themselves over her like she's a great big doggy clotheshorse? Who's going to ruffle her fur and fluff her neck ruff so she's all leonine and poke fun at her for being a great big puppy even though she's already two years old? Who's going to trim her claws and sneak her into the house and put their feet on her and pretend she's a giant rug?

What if she dies and I'm not there?

Twice is enough.

Sigh.

Yes, this is just Slinky having a great big meltdown. It had to happen some time. Especially after you all chimed in in the previous post about crying at airports and homesickness and whatnot (bastards). Give it some time. I'll be okay.

In the meantime though, I need a drink.

Edit: I have just found out that ym mother has already embarked on her intention to harass the Vice Chancellor into finding me a place to stay on-campus. *whimper*

The Boy has also pointed out that the only reason I am paying such exorbitant school fees is so that the Australian government can let Aussie students not go to class for free. I have resolved to kick the first slacking Australian I see.