Tomorrow's my last day at the NZ job. I've basically passed up a decent Chicago-based internship offer with my fingers crossed that I may get an offer from my Favorite Title Ever. Should FTE not pull through... well, we'll think about that from the limbo that is Prescott, Arizona, where I may be living in my parents' spare room, aka the Ninth Circle, until I find a job that will take me. And pay me. At least enough to eat.

Just got back from a Happy Hour going-away party. Got drunk off of two glasses of wine, obviously I haven't been using my time in Sauv Blanc land to its full capacity.

My coworkers were shocked and awed when I disclosed what I owe in student loans. "Is that in American dollars???"

Went for a possibly-final walk along Mission Bay to walk off my buzz before sitting down to make some sense of my final story, which I haven't been able to make any progress on from the office. Can't concentrate there, don't know what my problem is. It's always too loud. Or too quiet.

It's sort of bittersweet to be leaving. I feel like I just got here. And there's something so gosh-darn romantic about living across the road from a beautiful beach, with the mysterious and untouched (or so I'm pretending) Rangitoto island sitting in the haze.

If I go back to Chicago, my life may never be like this again. If I wind up living in AZ, it won't be like this. Okay, it will never be like this.

It's been interesting living with a freelance writer, whose adventures in the past few months have taken her from Botswana to Scott Air Force Base in Antarctica and back. From giraffes and hippos to Emporer penguins in a matter of months - can you imagine? I don't think the freelance lifestyle is for me, but then again, it would never get old, and you would never have to do anything you didn't want to. Who knows...

I've totally slacked on all that last-minute stuff. Buying thank you notes. Closing my bank account. Am regretting not doing one last load of laundry. I hate having to pack dirty underwear. Especially if it's going to be sitting in my suitcases for more than a week. Next to all my Christmas gifts, ha ha.

I can't help but be disappointed in what I've done while here. Don't feel good about anything I've written. Don't feel like I've done enough, although for a monthly mag, maybe it's okay. And while coworkers say I write well, all I take in is my boss agreeing when I said I was afraid my travel piece turned out a little cheesy. "It is a little, but you pulled it off." Well, fuck. I've been reading the Best Travel Writing of 2000 for inspiration, but I'm just not at that level yet. I hate not being good at things. All I want is to be the best at something, is that too much to ask?

Am looking forward to my final fling on the S. Island. Maybe I should just buy a bigger backpack and scam my way around the world for a while. I feel like I've hardly experienced anything in my life. And I've probably seen more than most, but it's really just scratching the surface.