Freak-out shifts into third gear—asks Bethylene, 'are there more gears?'

Canceling my cellphone yesterday afternoon, while I did not notice at the time, has initiated final-stage Bethylene anxiety mode (the Johnson enduring legacy). I haven't slept all night. I just came back from a wee-hours snack of cheese, crackers, and Hershey's syrup mixed with a little milk. My joints hurt. My heart's pounding.

This is really going to happen. I really am surrendering my financial independence to my father, King Pennywise-Poundfoolish of Guilttrip Land. I really am spending two months in a place that's exactly like prison—a prison without the usual television, library, adequate sleep, and free time. I really am facing eighteen months of speaking like a very small child—something I quit well before my third birthday. I really am going to be five-foot-aught in North Philly. I really am going to advertise my huge waist-to-hip ratio (83%!) because I have to tuck in my shirts. I really am never wearing my slinky silk dress with the wide neckline ever again.