I’m not sure I remember how to blog.

Funny how these things slip away. Eight or nine years of constantly posting on LiveJournal, documenting all my greatest and most embarrassing moments in remarkable detail, letting everyone know just how excited I was about every last moment. Two major crushes (two!) documented from beginning to end, and thousands of photos. Novel-length posts about a single event, like a party which surely was the greatest one ever, as was the previous one, as was the previous one…!, but not the one before that, maybe, because of one small moment that tarnished it. All these friends I made joining in along the way, me becoming comfortable about letting my gang know how I overanalyzed everything that happened in my life. Turning into a person at ease with myself.

I think it was 2010 when I stopped posting on LiveJournal. I got distracted by the shiny, simple appeal of Tumblr, and I’ve been caught in its web ever since. And strangely, I’ve gone through the most dramatic phase of my personal development relatively undocumented. A drunken series of tweets here and there, scribblings in a cherished notebook, and certainly lengthy emails to dear friends, but that’s it. So many emotions digitally documented and immediately deleted, because I’ve been okay with not holding onto everything. The things that matter will stick around, won’t they? Maybe hidden somewhere weird in my memory, where they’ll be dug up by something ever-so-vaguely related. But I can see the appeal of both ways of living. Certainly I’ve had times where I’ve been struggling to remember details of pre-2010 events, and that sometimes-embarrassing-but-always-honest past version of me was tremendously helpful. This has been happening a lot lately, if I’m to tell the truth (and I always am). Something about preparing to move away makes you nostalgic as shit*.

So maybe I’ve forgotten how to blog, and I’ve certainly forgotten how to do much by way of HTML, but it’s been worth it. It’s been worth it to live these past few years, to figure out so much more of who I am. Certainly it’s a constant process, and there are all sorts of moments where I still don’t have a goddamn clue, but I’m coming along. The change from That Leslie, the one of LiveJournal, to This Leslie, who lives her life or at least attempts to…? Incredible, if I do say so myself.

This Leslie, who doesn’t just talk about how maybe one day she’ll move to London, imagine that, imagine if she moved to London, ha ha ha ha ha…!, but who is actually moving to London. I can scarcely believe it and I’m scared shitless, but I have to do it, because I’ll be letting myself down if I don’t. I don’t want to look back at the life I’ve lived with regret. One of the most important people in my life told me the other day I’m “the most fucking determined person [she] know[s]” and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, to know I’m thought of that way. It feels like a lie, not from her but from myself, but anyone would feel the same way about moving away, wouldn’t they?

But I’m going anyway.

It’s January 27th. I want to be in London before March. That gives me a month. A month, exactly, if not less.
I’m still waiting on one last document before I can apply for my visa.
I don’t have a place to stay yet.
I don’t have a flight booked yet.

… adventure, yeah?

* it’s a little-known fact, but shit is very nostalgic.

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