Go!
This is what has derailed me the past couple of weeks. Damn you, Pete Wentz! He has added himself to my collection of short, dark-haired, tattooed pretties.
Although, to be fair, I've been a little distracted lately anyway. And kinda bummed out. It seemed like it would be a long time before the end but it's here now. This is the last week before the countdown. And it's stupid and melodramatic and pointless but I can't help but think of how wretched I'm going to feel the day after Thanksgiving. And it's not because I'll be that bloated from the feast. So how do I react? Do I healthily express my feelings and process what I'm going through? NO. I sublimate and repress and what oozes out from that death grip of denial isn't pretty. Death Grip of Denial. I should start a band. A head-banging angst-ridden piano rock chick band. Of death.
In other news, my uncle passed away the day before yesterday. I found out before my mom (her brother-in-law) and when I told her she cried while saying, "I'm glad he got to eat the pie!" Apparently, he wasn't eating. And the doctors weren't thrilled that it was pie, but at least he was eating. It took him 45 minutes to slowly gasp to death because they didn't give him enough morphine. 45 minutes of his wife and children sitting there watching him die like that. Bryce got kicked out of the hospital, too. So I don't know if he actually got to be there at the last moment or not. I'm not sure of the chronology.
But he got pie.