All right, so. Lots to cover today. Why am I writing this like I'm leading a meeting at work? We have a lot to go over today everyone so let's just power through it. Hold all questions until the end please, we just have a lot of slides to get through.
Ugh.
There's the dead stuff and the Richie stuff.
Why was it almost worse than getting a hole carved in my chest, hearing he was seeing someone? The answer is: because I've got to walk around and pretend I don't have a gaping chest wound, right now. At least when I actually got stabbed I got to die. I didn't have to pretend it didn't hurt.
I'm happy for him. Really. I'm happy for him if he's happy. And he seems happy. Guy's probably smart and funny and doesn't have allergies or a psychosomatic connection to his inhaler. Probably cool and confident. Probably actually, you know, acknowledges feelings out loud.
Anyway let's talk about how I'm still at least a little bit dead. Cheerier topic. At least I had the breakthrough last night of being able to cry. But I still feel like I left parts of me behind. I'm going to put together the puzzle that is my fucking existence and find a few jigsaw pieces are missing.
Fuck.
[Several pages of the word 'fuck' and then end of entry.]