My hand will slip open from the pink phone of adorableness, the wailer's Italian family in the next room will say something unintelligable through the walls, and suddenly I'm far away, holding a breadstick in space. When the phone rings that I have another text, my eyes groggily come to and I attempt to write back another message, scantily living up to my promise that I would text the boy as much as possible now that we both have unlimited texting.
It's more than just the breadstick in space and the groggy lovey dovey insecure conversation and the unintelligable Italian wailer. I guess I realized today that everything in my life hinges on the next couple of months.
It's the surreal and real, conscious and subconscious battling it out to make means of what I've been going through. Or maybe it's just a slip into something fun, different, devoid of vitals every four hours and blood and hospitals and doubt and fear. But it makes it really hard to get up in the morning, I tell you what.