It's hard convincing myself that it's not just for a week or two. More so than I thought it would be.
It hasn't sunk in that it'll be three months before I sleep in my bed again. Three months until I sit right where I am right now. Three months until I can again stumble down my bedstairs at noon only to spend what little of the day remains reclusively in the living room recliner online. Three months until I can again get annoyed by a little hungry cat and then trip over him ten times on my way to feed him because he's so stupid. I feel the worst for him - he cries when I leave to go to the store until I come back, and I can't help but wonder how long he'll cry before he realizes that I'm not coming back this time. It breaks my heart to even think about it.
How strange. The only thing that I will honestly cry over tomorrow is leaving my cat. And this house. I feel so attatched to this house and I don't want to leave, but I suppose that's the price I have to pay for never going out.
God, this sucks.