I am making bread dough. I think I want home made cheese sticks. We’ll see what they turn into.
Load of laundry done; practicing done. Two songs descended and I don’t even want to deal with them. I’m used to crying while I’m writing songs but not this. The fucking pandemic is making me an emotional hole collector.
Right now I’m missing John so badly, for all the things he’d say and the songs he’d sing, and I tried to give myself a “Well life goes on” speech but that’s hard when I can still smell him in the room divider and his name is on the wall. And I miss Mike, and my parents with an everpresent longing, and I miss being able to feel like an actor in the world, and I miss thinking about what I’d do if I went back to school.
charming piece of BC twitter follows (they’re all fake accounts)
there’s a thing going round twitter about the albums that came out the year you were born. Man I’m old.
fic 16197
