Welcome to the weekend’s homestretch. We’re a little overcast this morning. We’ll live. Mal is eating some breakfast and Chaucer is following Brian around. I have a coffee, so that has to mean something.
There’s only 10 days left until I fly out. I’m almost down to a single-digit countdown. Shawshank gave me permission to start freaking out. I’m trying very hard to not expect trouble. I’ve flown internationally – both on my own and with a companion – in the past. Once I’m on the plane, I’m fine. I don’t give a shit about the actual flying. I’ll pop a gummy and sleep if things get too rough mentally.
Honestly, I’m pretty scared of the trip in general. When I land in the city whose name rhymes with FUN on December 1, we’ll have been apart for 648 days. I spent over a year of that time disposing of our life together, and the last nine months back home with Mom and Brian. Shawshank‘s been in lockup, then with his parents, and now in his apartment. How much may have changed between us since that February morning?
I can’t think about this right now. The day is too gray for that.
I don’t know what we’ll do today. It’s football day, so I’ll be ignoring the television for the better part of my existence. We’ll see if we actually make it to the Compound this weekend.
