The Ides of April

April strikes again.

My grandfather, Pop-pops, died at 93.

I want more. I’m not done. I’m not done. Please.

I had to call Cinderella and tell her, and we both broke (me, again). I need to call her back.

My office door is shut, and I won’t open it. I spent some time curled up against it.

Bridgette is coming for me, which is good.

Oh, fuck. I have to talk with Eric and ma and Othello and California and

Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry

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