I am drinking pineapple juice and thinking about smoking cigarettes. I don't drink nearly enough pineapple juice and smoke way too many cigarettes.

Yet, I am not sure which one I like better.

So, OK. Saturday, I wrote the play dude two electronic letters within five hours of each other. The first was a brief mention of fucked-up humans and a promise to send the play by Sunday. The second one was the play.

This morning, I find a reply from him waiting for me. I brace myself since criticism is sometimes like a very thorny plant that pokes you a lot and opened the email.

What did I find? One sentence agreeing that, yes, humans are fucked. Another sentence asking if I put said human fuckedupness in my play. And the final sentence stated that my play wasn't set in modern times, so maybe I couldn't use that example of human fuckedupness? I don't know. It didn't really make sense and I hadn't taken my Flinstone vitamin yet.

Oh, I forgot he mentioned that it was good to hear from me. He did. He said, "It's good to hear from you, Molly."

OK...so maybe he didn't receive the script? Which would explain why he made no mention of it? But the deadline had passed, I promised him something by the deadline, so wouldn't one ask where the fuck is the promised play, if one does not receive the promised play?

He has confused me. I wrote him a confused electronic letter. As of 1:30am, I am still confused. And sneezing. But that probably has nothing to do with the confusedness.

Pineapple juice time has ended. It is now cigarette time. Hold on, please.

Anyway, May and I went to the graveyard tonight and, for the second time in all the years we've known each other, I cried in front of her.

I don't know where this is all coming from. It's been over a thousand days since he died. I think I'm going to throw up if I don't stop shaking like this.

I told my best friend about the dream and we noticed that neither one of us ever dreams that he never killed himself. It's always about him being dead, coming back, and then hanging out. We never freak out in the dreams and it's not even like dead people coming back is a common occurrence. He's back, we're happy, the fucking end. It's the same thing for the both of us. Hell, we've even had similar dreams on the same night.

Oh, god. I thought I could write this out and actually tell the entire goddamn story, but I can't. It won't even help. The only regret I have in life is how I acted in the months before he killed himself. I was fucking stupid and now I can't fucking let go cuz I honestly have no idea how bad I fucked up. I don't know I don't know I don't know. This hurts and why the fuck now? Why still? Again, where did this come from? I really was OK. I fucking swear to you. There is nothing unusual about tonight or last night, so why can't I fucking stop crying?

Jesus.

I'm sorry.

<<< TOP >>>