I'm not sure how I should write about the last twenty-four hours. It's not like something happened that exceeds my ability to transcribe or I have some major confession that entails a brilliant choice of words to soften the blow for you, the reader, and me, the writer. There's none of that.

Sorry?

It's just that sometimes I fear that I write the same thing, over and over again, and it's a chore to read. I'm bored, I'm sad, I miss him, I had an accident, zombies are cool, etc. and so forth. It's the same thing, all the time and I'm running out of ways to make it interesting. That sucks.

And, no, I am not trying to say that I'm ending this journal. I am trying to say that I am sick of myself and something needs to change. What, I don't know.

Until then, it's the same old same old.

Today was the kind of day where I was reckless with hot pans in the hopes I would slip and burn myself. A pile of books fell on my hand and I felt like I could breathe for the first time all day. Yeah, that's fucked up. I know. Of all the fucked-up relationships in my life right now, the one with pain is in the most need of fixing.

I'll change the subject before the mold can grow on the words.

I finished the play last night around 3. That makes me happy. Of course, now I have to wait for the guy's critique and make the subsequent changes, but that's OK. Revising doesn't make me want to break faces that much anymore.

I'm excited. Like, totally. Even though I still have no clue where it will be performed, what time, the cost (if any), how many other plays will be done that day/night or if there will be booze flowing freely. It's all good. I'm going to be reading something I wrote in front of an audience and I will make my mama proud. Even though she won't be there cuz she has some 4-H thing or something, but THAT'S OK.

Seriously.

Anyway, I had one of the most vivid dreams about K last night. I walked into a room and saw him helping somebody set up a soundboard. He looked over at me, I knew for sure that it was him and it felt like my heart was going to explode. I can't even describe the intensity of the feeling I got when I saw him.

He gave me the longest fucking hug and said, "You have no idea how much I've missed you."

It took every ounce of strength to keep myself from crying.

I started to bring up his suicide and he stopped me. "You'll make me want to do it again," he said and laughed. I glanced down at my wrist and wondered how many people had showed him the tattoos they got after he died.

I kept my bracelets over mine.

And then he said, "You wrote a play, didn't you? That is so fucking cool."

I woke up crying and smiling at the exact same time.

It was a good dream.

I'm going to write about this later, though. Wanting to see him this bad is not a good thing when you're the only one awake in the house.

This is getting pretty long.

And dumb.

And I witnessed an eighty-year old woman talking about vibrating nipple clamps on the TV.

The dreams, they shall be sweet tonight.

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