I hate moving.

You pack up your stuff, all those little belongings you love so much: The baseball glove, the yearbook, the picture album. You throw them in the car and travel to the next place.

I loathe it.

Maybe it’s because I never moved around when I was a little kid, never had to make new friends or schmooze new teachers. I never had to learn new street names or a new phone number.

But when I came to college it was different. I packed up my ’97 Honda Civic and drove down I-65 to find a new home.

Then I began moving around a lot. Every summer I was off to a new place, seeing the country. But I always came back to Bowling Green, which had become my new home base.

Now I’m packing up and leaving again, and I won’t be coming back to Western.

By the grace of God (or Buddha, or Allah), I will actually graduate in two weeks (pending a few gracious grades from very understanding professors).

But you know what’ll happen then? I’ll just have to move again. And I’m not sure I want to.

I think maybe I’m in the beginning stages of post-graduate denial.

I don’t think I want to leave.

Or grow up.

Or become responsible in any way.

So I have a plan.

I will do what my uncle has done — I will become a professional student, spending my days going to class, taking tests and passing the time in coffee shops, debating things like why the Holy Roman Empire was neither Holy nor Roman nor an Empire.

But I don’t like class. Or tests. Or coffee, really.

And I’m not really a history buff.

Actually, I just like spending time in my room, doing nothing.

I wonder if I could do that for four more years.

Probably not.

I wonder if I could get paid for sitting in my room, doing nothing.

I’m guessing I can’t.

This means I’ll be moving again, leaving the place I’ve called home for a long while.

First I’ll go home to Louisville, and I’ll spend three weeks there. Then I’m going to Florida for a while, to write about sports. I’m living with a friend, and it should be a good time.

But first I’m going to have to unload all my college stuff, pack it up in storage, and move down the Sunshine State. I’ll unload the car, live there for a while, then pack it all back up and do it again.

I’m starting to think I may need some more stability in my life.

In the wise words of one-hit wonder Matthew Wilder, “Nobody gonna break my stride. Nobody gonna hold me down. Oh-no. I got to keep on moving.”

They say it’s sunny and warm in Florida.

I kinda like the cold.

They say it’s a party every night.

I’m a little more of the quiet type.

They say there’s women in bikinis everywhere.

I just want to hang out with my girlfriend.

But I guess I’m going to have to grow up and face the world now, not knowing where I’ll stay. The Hill will be a memory, a visit, a rest stop.

Just like Florida will eventually be.

And after that, who knows. All I can see is an empty road ahead of me, full of unknown faces and a ’97 Honda Civic.

Fully loaded.

Ryan Clark is a senior print journalism major from Louisville. He’ll graduate next week.