Still seems too ridiculous and insincere to write anything. Braggadocious and disingenuous. Woe is me, and you. I’m not the journaling type, I really hate blogging and I only do it because there’s nothing else to fill the site with if I’m not writing. I’ve grieved. I continue to grieve, and wonder what to do with it, besides stare at it taking up space in my brain like the last customer in the bar at one in the morning. What are you still DOING here, bill’s paid, drink’s drunk, get off your chair and get the hell out? I’m tired? I’ve made room for it in my body, it has a home to call its own (my left arm, down to the fingertips but stopping cleanly in the shoulder joint), I talk and joke and cry, healthily. Everything’s finished, dues are paid.
WHAT are you still DOING here?
Vanhattan 
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