• I dream about Pop-Tarts. Like, seriously. All the time.
    • I only seem to sleep from 5am-8am.
    • I spend hours imagining what my life will be like when this is over. It involves a throne of Pop-Tarts and I’m the queen, sitting on the throne/eating the throne.
    • I go out in public after spending hours in my bed and forget how to interact with people. Seriously. This is me, in every single human interaction.
  • In a moment of high stress, I begin to have grand (and decidedly false) impressions of my capabilities. (I AM GOING TO WALK TWO BLOCKS.) And then fail, miserably. (I DIDN’T EVEN MAKE IT TO THE SIDEWALK.)
  • I think about cereal all the time.
  • Like, ALL the time. I could eat the shit out of a box of Cocoa Krispies right now. And a box of Frosted Flakes. AND a box of Apple Jacks.
  • My brain breaks and I make up words. The other day, I actually told the radiologist that we were waiting for surgery because my insides were, “Inflam…um, inflammat…uh, uh, INFLAMMATED.”
  • At 3am, I’ll suddenly become overwhelmed by everything happening and have a crying, snotty meltdown. Then I wake Will up and make him feel my belly because I’m certain it’s blowing up like a balloon and about to explode because the stent has failed.
  • (Maybe that last one never actually happened in college.)
  • At the end of this, I’ll have nothing to show for my experience except eleventy billion bills and a stomach I don’t recognize.