This is ridiculous. Turning the goddamn lock makes me want to burst into tears, because he doesn't like it when I use the bottom lock. I open my bag and there are his pills -- how did they end up there? A cruel twist of fate, every motion and reaction designed to make me miss him more. The Sunday night lineup on Fox... Our lineup. Every strike of a match: open the window! Close the hallway door! The mail, of course: our Netflix, two different accounts, one for my artsy-fartsy movies, one for his action-packed
blockbusters. I can't listen to music: That Dog is what I want to hear, and that's his least favorite CD of mine, so I can only listen to it when he's gone. And he's gone. In Illinois for a cheaper version of the surgery he's needed for the past year and some months.
The notebooks in which I keep track of my life: his purchases. The leopard print sheets: his fetish. The bed, my God, the bed, where many a night I found him crouched over me, trying to halt the tears, among other things.
If I need a glass of water in the middle of the night, I have to ease out of the warmth of the covers and get it myself. I have to make myself dinner; me, the girl who burns rice. I'm too short to put up our makeshift curtains, so I'm doomed to be awakened at sunup for the next few weeks. If it's foggy and I can sleep in, the dog is huffing at me to let him pee, please.
Speaking of the dog, he managed to unearth and destroy my Aaron substitute sometime during the week I was gone. Let's make this a little more difficult, shall we?
one year ago today: nothin. two years ago today: "a shark on whisky is mighty risky, but a shark on beer is a beer engineer" three years ago today: nothin.