It’s 10 a.m. and I am battling yet another hangover.

My roommate, Lindsey, has long since gone to work, just as hung over, but without the option of sleeping in.

With nothing better to do, I settle in for an hour of Mario Kart on Lindsey’s old, green Nintendo 64.

It’s hot in the cramped apartment the two of us are subletting for the summer, but money is tight, so I turn on an old fan instead of the air conditioning.

When Lindsey comes home for her lunch break, we try to piece together the events of the night before.

The keg parties with all the familiar faces are starting to morph into one hazy memory that will eventually become the totality of my last summer break.

It’s not only my last summer before adulthood hits, it’s my first not spent living with my family. It feels like a big step for me, and in many ways, it is.

The summer has been one of adjusting to the idea of adulthood.

My high school friends are starting to get married and settled down.

My first kiss, a friend of my older brother, got married last weekend; it still seems unreal.

My first love started dating my friend, and I was crushed, spending three days in bed, crying and staring at my hands.

Broken hearts eventually heal, and I feel stronger for the experience.

It pushes me to go out of my comfort zone and make new friends.

One of these new friends lent me his copy of “The Sun Also Rises” by Ernest Hemingway, and it made me a better writer in many ways.

Improving my set of writing skills has become the focus of my summer as I start to worry about finding a job in journalism after graduation.

There are few people around and even fewer things to do, so my afternoons are often spent reading and watching movies with director’s commentary.

Lindsey always laughs when she comes home to find me in my underwear on the couch, watching “Little Miss Sunshine” for the tenth time, but she understands there isn’t much else to do.

On the nights that there are no parties worth going to or we’re all too worn out from the previous evening’s adventures to go out, we walk the half mile to our friends’ townhouse to make a vegetarian, Charleston-style family dinner and play intense games of Monopoly.

It is in nights like those that I can finally start to see myself in a settled down existence, one filled with home cooked meals and people I love, but the next night when we decide to go out with a bottle of tequila, I know I’m not there just yet.

Sarah Ruholl can be reached at 581-7943 or seruholl2@eiu.edu.