“Why do I insist on compulsively reading my grief forums and then getting sad, and other dumb questions I ask myself” is my next subtitle for the memoir I’m not writing because I hate them
My world is a strange awful foreign place without you.
I wish you were here to make fun of me for being the idiot who let our kid learn how computer keyboards work and now he wants to type all the time like it’s his job. I think he thinks that’s all I do all day at work is flail my hands around clicking. To be fair, he’s basically right.
I don’t want to tackle taking out the trash or dealing with the first world problem of unboxing a new baby gate and toilet paper that were delivered to me.
I don’t want any of this, fuck everything