I’ve spent hours looking over listings, comparing prices, neighborhoods and reviews, yet I still can’t imagine living in one of the many apartments I have on my list. It’s strange, for months I have known this time would come, but actually sitting here knowing one of these spaces will soon be called “home” is so strange.

I guess my apprehension is doubled by the fact that I’m in Los Angeles, a place I spent my whole life saying I would never live. It’s almost polar opposite of the other school I could have accepted.

There are things that make me excited to be moving here. I’ll have a plethora of Farmer’s markets to choose from. My intake of fine arts will be limitless. I’ll be closer to my dad. I’ll be back in Southern California. I could go to the beach every damn day if I want to. I will have access to multiple libraries. I could run in to various smokin’ hot celebrities on a daily basis.

Those are great things, but what about those sleepless nights when I feel so small, wide-eyed and waiting for the sirens to stop?

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