McQueen is dead. If I believed in an afterlife, there would be a big room covered in canary-yellow feathers and another painted in black-and-white houndstooth, and everyone there would wear too much red lipstick, and Isabella Blow would greet him at the door, and she would stick the most fabulous hat on his head.
Rest in peace. You are already missed.
* * * * *
I went to group this morning (a story for another day). Following the advice of the group leader, I talked with an advocate afterward about the sliding scale. Mental Health Association called back when I was putting away groceries and told me that because I'm financially dependent on my parents and living with my father, I could pay a single dollar. I choked on the air. I have an interview with them March 1. I'm so thankful that all I can do is cry.