It's been eventful between updates.
The highlights, in reverse chronological order, are:
Today, I finally got my stomach tattoos finished and they're lovely.
I also watched a 10-year-old boy die on 98th avenue. His name was John Giordano and he bled not three feet from my car. It was surreal. I spent the night enjoying an Italian meal with my best friend in the entire world, all the while bemoaning my miserable life. I came outside a restaurant I wasn't even supposed to be in (thank downtown parking or lack thereof) to find a boy, bleeding more blood than maybe I've ever seen in my life, run down by a woman whose life will never be the same, while the mother of this boy screamed and pulled at her hair. I feel like a complete ingrate. The emotion and the sight of that boy's shoes a yard away from his frantically inhaling but otherwise motionless body sent me into panicked shaking and crying for hours afterward.
Maybe I was meant to see all that and realize that I was being an idiot.
Maybe I'm lonely and poor and under copious amounts of stress with no one to release all of that to, but I have my moments.
It's amazing how the implication that someone uses images of you for sexual gratification and the phrase "big-ass breasts" can be incredibly flattering when every boy you've seen in the past three months has shunned you fiercely.
Finally, my heart still hurts for you, Daniel Kent Hill.
One last kick in the face?
My therapist won't even return my calls.
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