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