I really miss you.
I really miss you.
I can’t believe it’s been five years and three days since you died. Five years. So much has happened that you’ve missed, much of it things you told me you knew you were going to miss. You were like an oracle in that hospital bed, pointing at the television, telling me my name was going to be on that screen with “written by” in front of it, and that you wished you were going to be there to hold a book with my name on the cover. It makes me wish you’d told more about the future lives of all of us instead of that tangent about the girl you took to prom, the one with the bacne.
It’s always painful when the big moments happen and you aren’t here. But those, in some ways, are much easier to get through. Mom, Bosie and I will call each other, or the moment is big enough that there’s a friend around or many friends around, or it’s happy enough that the joy quickly fills up the ache. It’s the little moments that get to me. It’s hard to get through the moments when you are the only person who would have been able to understand. Continue reading
You know what happens when you have to write something for the ninth time, which means it’s not quite the tenth, so it isn’t as exciting and spectacular, and it all kind of snuck up on you because you were taking some much-needed time away from the internet, because sometimes you’ve got a lot of shit on your plate… which is a really gross image (and sorry), but like, you just don’t know what to do? Well, what happens is, y’all get a clip show.
CLIP SHOW! YAY! Continue reading
You are two of the best things about coming home. Thank your mom for sending me this picture.
Calling a doctor due to the overdose of cute going on in here,
“…this falling in love routine is very bizarre. You find perfectly ordinary, rational people like computer programmers and chartered accountants, and there they are, happily computing and chartering away, and suddenly they see someone across a crowded room and think, ‘Ah, that person is made for me, so I suppose I’d better spend the rest of my life with them.’ It borders on the occult.”
As a reward, I put on my headphones. My marathon playlist keeps me moving. I see stee pass in his car down the highway. I’ll see him again in about an hour. I run the numbers. 15, 25, 27, 37, 39, 49, 51, 101. It’s all about getting that medal.
It rains, just slightly. Continue reading
Maybe less than a year ago I was the kind of person who rolled her eyes as she passed the self-help aisle of the bookstore. They all seemed like the same: “Why Don’t I Feel Normal?”: A Guide To Helping You Feel Normal.
Now I’m that girl grabbing those books. Reading them. Using a pen. What?! I don’t write in any book, and now I’m doing self-help homework? Like a total girl.
[Pamela is exhibiting negative behavior about herself. She has recently learned that she’s not supposed to do that, like when she calls herself a dork, a klutz, a spaz, a geek, a nerd, a loser, a freak, a weirdo, or scrunches up her face after receiving a compliment. But if she stops doing that, who will she become?] Continue reading