Why would I ever leave
Cuz I know
I got some good
friends
That live down the
street
Got some good lookin’
women with their arms ‘round me
Here in a small town,
Where it feels like
home
I got everythin’ I
need, and nothin’ that I don’t
Today, it is officially the end of an era. I know I’m being an absolutely unrealistic, dramatic
little sap, but I can’t help myself. I
literally spent all morning packing my life as a Durhamite-Devil into an
obscene number of large suitcases. It
was seven to be exact, and 4 smaller carry-ons.
You don’t have to say it because I know that we’re all thinking it—it
was disgusting—I was disgusting. By the time I was through, our apartment, the
pig sty, was anything but. It lost each
and every characteristic that I’d come to associate with apartment 438, and
with home. It was spotless and clean,
bare and boring. It was no longer funky
fresh, adorable, or oozing with wholesomeness.
There were no smells of gingersnaps wafting through the air, no
casseroles, or blueberry pies baking in the oven, no bacon sizzling or eggs (or
in Kate’s case, a singular egg) frying on the stove, and no caramelized onions
sweating away in the slow cooker. There
were no sounds of the thermostat being adjusted, then readjusted; no “stupids”,
“shut-ups”, or “ews”. Emily wasn’t
scampering about the kitchen, dedicated to devoting equal amounts of time to
both her breakfast cereal and her makeup routine. “Red rover, red rover, have Emily come over”,
they both beckoned. Luya wasn’t one with
her bed, and Kate wasn’t sprawled spread eagle on her mattress. No one was in the kitchen spewing nonsense,
and no one was at the dining table in their proper seat to receive such
nonsense. The fridge was empty of
hummus, beer, Greek yogurt, minestrone soup, month old rotisserie chicken,
kale, baby carrots, and essentially any and all remnants of the domestic
goddesses, homegrown honeys, trap queens, and the basic b*tches that once
roamed and reigned the halls of 605.
I pulled up 1989 on Itunes and looked around waiting for
someone to call me out for my senile ways—my old school habits—my refusal to
cave and convert to Spotify. I sang
along to Taylor under my breath, expecting Kate to join in (high school musical
style), and mumble and murmur her way through the song (un-high-school-musical
style). I looked up at Luya’s door half
expecting the familiar tune to lure her out of her bed and make a beeline for the
fridge only to find that her true desires and cravings lay elsewhere. “I really want corn salsa”, she’d say. “Anyone wanna go to Chipotle with me?” she’d ask.
“Nope”, I’d reply, “but hurry up so we can watch Iron Chef over lunch
when you’re back?”
I glanced around at the empty kitchen counters. There were no jars of moldy strawberry jams,
giant fish-bowl-mason-jars, or “ew” glass milk bottles—all projects intended to
make the world a better place, gone astray.
There were no empty water glasses, nor were there full ones, partially
empty, nor partially full ones. The
dining table was devoid of thought-provoking and intellectually stimulating
discussions: talk of pants and more talk of proper pants, objective statements,
personality analyses, future lover forecasts, and cold-war-part-2
predictions. The dining table was the
hub of activity in 438, and the kitchen, the hot spot. It was a place where great things
happened—nude photoshoots, Great-Gatsby-esque dinner parties—we did it
all. Here, drinks were poured, and
feelings were spilled, messes were made, and domestic disputes were cleaned
up. I’d like to think that we came, we
saw, and we conquered, but when it comes down to it, I know we did much more
than that. We came, we shared, we felt,
we experienced, we lived, we laughed (Kate chuckled, Luya chorlted, Emily
giggled), we loved, we wished we could cry, we wished we would cry, we did cry,
we got deep, we stayed shallow, we befriended, we Tindered, we teased, we took it one too
far, we ate, we ate too little, we ate one too many, we joked, we got pierced,
we talked of getting tatted, we got tatted, we didn’t get tatted, we beached,
we drawled, we drooled, we drove, we danced, we saw, we sang, we cooked, we
tried to clean, and sometimes we actually did clean, we liked, we didn’t, and
we didn’t not like, but we also didn’t like, we occasionally turned up, but
more than occasionally, we turned up the thermostat. We turned down the long list of suitors
waiting at our door (har har), and occasionally crashed parties to turn down the
noise. We entertained, we hosted, we
drink, drank, occasionally got a bit drunk, but rarely got too drunk. We babysat, we humored, we cared, and I’d
like to think that we loved. We could,
should, would, and therefore, we did, and we conquered—we really did. We took advantage of our time, and we really
made the most of it—Duke, Durham, and each other. In reality, I wouldn’t have it any other way,
nor do I think that I could have.
I’m tearing up as I’m writing this, which officially puts me
up amongst the gross group of people you don’t want to be sitting next to on a
plane, and the guy next to me, amongst the group of unfortunate people on this
flight to Lalaland. These are tears of
sadnesss. They’re tears of happiness and
joy, but mostly, and most importantly, they’re tears of the most heartfelt of
all heartfelt gratitudes. You three made
it about the journey rather than the destination. You were all about the accent when it was
actually about anything but. You focused
on stupid details, and narrowed in on stupider jokes. You were nice, mean, and a good combination
of the two. You made me self-aware in
the best sense of the word, and because of you, I became more conscious—more mindful—of
the beauty of relationships, the ease of companionship, and the difficulties of
friendship. We struggled, we fought, we talked,
we bonded, and we made up. Then we baked
cupcakes, painted each other’s nails, and had pillow fights naked.
Thanks to you, I didn’t crack under pressure, but instead,
managed to stay sane, and somewhat grounded, and thanks to you, I grew under
that pressure, and matured into a beautiful butterfly—aka a Taylor-Swift-loving
adult. You made me bigger, watched me
get better (may we forgive and forget the traveler’s diarrhea) (even Luya who retreated to her hotel), made me bolder,
and kept me brighter, and I can only hope that I did the same for you. You showed me
whole new worlds filled with Brett Eldridge, Luke Bryan, and Pitbull. We did it like brothers, we did it like
dudes, we took it to the head, we packed bowls for two, we found wonderland,
and now we’ve reached the fork in the road and we’re all taking it. We’re taking it so hard and I couldn’t be
sadder, but knowing that this sadness stems from four years of stories—four
years of memories, mistakes, and lessons learned, I also couldn’t be any
happier. It’s bittersweet, really, but
if it makes you feel any better, it’s more sweet than bitter. It is the
end of an era, but it’s also the start of another, and I just know that things will get better—they’ll also get bigger,
and brighter. The era ahead of us is one
of puppies, soul mates, wanderlust, adventures in Dubai, babies, food tours
around South East Asia, Wanderlist, wealth (or at least an improvement from
college-era poverty levels), bachelorette parties, success, kittens, and
happiness. It’s an exciting time, and
I’d like to think that our time together has prepared us all for the journey
ahead—setbacks, successes, obstacles, and everything else in between. So, here’s to the past, the present, and the
future—here’s to a lifetime of coming, seeing, conquering, and much, much,
more—here’s to Duke, Dur[home], and to you three—the biggest, the baddest, the
most basic, and the best—the homegrown honeys of 438.
Love you all to the stupid-ew-stupid moon and back,
Kimmy
