Puddle hopping.

I'm leaving my planet in five, very short, days. I woke up this afternoon thinking it was Wednesday, and wasn't alerted to the fact that it was Thursday until I received a call from a friend. Helpful, good friend. I'm taking short shallow breaths that don't bring me any relief from the panic slowly building. Panic not because I'm leaving, well, maybe a little that I'm leaving, but panic that there is so much to do before liftoff. Just thinking about it makes me think of procrastinating. Put it off until the very last second. I work well under pressure, right? Pressure. Work to do. Sleep to be had. That bag won't pack itself. Ignore it. Focus on what you'd rather be doing. Read a book. Play on the internet. Listen to music. Eat something. Stare at the wall. I don't want to be prepared, I want to be frenzied, picked up by the maelstrom, thrown about and tossed onto the plane, to arrive safely at my destination: Italy.