it's 9:16 pm, on September 13, 2004 - that old familiar restlessness.

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I feel like I should add an entry here; I mean, there's stuff I could talk about, I suppose. kel and I are on the mandatory reading list of a grad level english class at York University--

Justin the serial killer story is on the mandatory reading list of a grad level english class at York University. let's take a moment there.

...

--okay. anyway. There's that, which feels akin to Jamie O'Neill emailing me about "at swim, two boys" - did I ever tell you about that? I think I did. every time some kind of fic is recognised as being literary, it catapults my life into the supremely surreal.

Rossi is visiting, and then Mel will come. I have people coming through my house, my home, I have looked upon the face of 4000, older, year old kings of Egypt at the Royal BC museum. I've been to the worst gay bar in the *world*.

I think the problem is that, the more adult I feel, the less I have to say that's introverted as well as poetic. I simply don't feel like talking about the pain and the suffering, the anger, and the loss and regret that Kyle's disappearance has created. I don't feel it.

I'm feeling supremely restless tonight. I can't think, I don't know what to do. nothing feels like it serves a *purpose*.

I don't think I'm in a depression, because Kyle and I are no more, but his loss has left a hole; I didn't know I wanted that part of me complete until it was.

Gee, that was dull. next time, crazy cat stories. and oh my god, have you ever seen a female cat in heat?

tag.

~

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moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
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bruise - June 29, 2015

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