I never wanted a wedding. I never wanted a child. So why did I hyperventilate in the middle of Wenceslas Square?
Being alone scares the living shit out of me. It’s like this black chasm of just … me, myself, I. And Oliver. But he’s going to die someday. And then it’s just going to be me. Unless I go first. Then he’s going to have to eat me for nourishment. That’s the way these things go.
My pen is still tearing at the paper. I keep blinking, hoping to evoke tears, but none are coming. I’m not a crier and that fact is terribly inconvenient.
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