Freaking Out

I'm leaving at the end of the week. . . .

It's scary. Seriously. I only have like five days left. . . . I'm not ready. . . Not even close.

My face is still the size of a punching balloon. . . . How am I supposed to go places like that? I'm not. I don't want to pack. Packing means it's time to go.

At the same time I do want to pack because I'm not doing anything else and that'll mean that later in the week when things are happening, I'll have the packing time for whatever else is going on.

I kept thinking "I'm leaving at the end of the month." People would ask when, and I'd say, "the end of the month." Now it's the end of the week. . . . It's five days. I'm in trouble.

I missed my "going away" party at church last night. I felt like a zombie. Or Death. Either one. I wanted to be there, but at the same time I didn't want to be there because I felt so horrible. Pain medication is from like the seventh level of Hades or something. . . Seriously. It does nasty things. Curse thee, Vicodin! Curse thee!

;)

Anyway. . . . . I should probably do something. I haven't for like four days. . . . Okay, today would be four.