need to write about something other than how shitty I’m doing

I’m angry that I spend so much time writing about being angry and sad and it’s just a boring repetitious rehash every day for months

Because no shit, looks like I’m going to be bad off for a long time

I wish I were spending that time writing about the things you loved, the things we did together, all the fun things I miss. Trying to preserve those stories that maybe no one else can tell, while they’re fresh enough to somehow convey your character through my shitty writing

Prompts off the top of my head for me to come back and write

  • Destiny. Destiny 1, 2, raids, PoE, Thorn
  • Grimfoe, Foam Brain, PAX, BoardGameGeek
  • Scouts, OotM, library, volunteering, ham radio
  • Mass Effect, Fallout, Skyrim, Alien Isolation, Prey
  • TNG, Data, Measure of a Man
  • Feliz, Microcenter, the time before that that we merged desktops
  • 8 Queens, Kryptos and all the other things we used to talk about on car rides home from dinner after your classes for your MS
  • Learning board game mechanics. Ra, Wizard, first getting into the board game revival, mini-cons. Made-up handicap for Race for the Galaxy. Deckbuilders, euros, bidding. Codenames & Dixit, knowing how someone thinks.
  • Teton Con, one-shots, wanting to walk down the mountain, Russian Railroads, systems with zero chance
  • Cape Cod, beaches, sailing, houseboat

Footnote. This is also a fake it until you make it ambition. Depressed people use more first-person personal pronouns. I don’t expect this to make me less angry/sad/numb/depressed, because grief is a bitch, but maybe it’ll be the tiniest bit less of a self-fulfilling prophecy if I spend more time thinking about something besides the inside-out absence of everything.

I know you’d say I have no responsibility to grieve in a particular way, don’t owe you. but if I feel I have one duty to you, it’s to try to record more while I remember it as clearly as I can. My obligation to convey your love and a sense of your energetic youth to our son. it stretches out before me and maybe this duty takes the rest of my life. maybe this is some weird survivor’s guilt burden, but I don’t care.