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I was a diva for thinking that my life would dramatically change when I came out of the gigantic closet-o-porn.

Surprisingly, much is the same, other than the fact that I get to dress like a real live person and wear a bit of lip gloss and mascara when I go to class. And there’s also the whole every-person-glancing-at-my-tits-real-quick-when-they-pass-me-in-the-halls deal, but I got used to that fast, maybe because more girls are willing to openly gawk than boys.

It’s a bit empowering, to say the least.

But most importantly, Dallas isn’t distracting me to the point of my grades dropping. Especially now, with my last massive final looming right over my shoulders. I’m so close to a summer of freedom that I can taste it—and it tastes a hell of a lot like an ice-cold IPA and a hot dog piled high with mayonnaise and grilled onions.

That’s the other thing… I haven’t exactly told Britain that I’m quitting EPE.

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