And then she told me to watch "10 Things I Hate About You" and try to find my Heath Ledger.
Salad Bar was no Heath Ledger. (Unless you want to call drunken karaoke renditions of Kelly Clarkson songs a serenade.) But his birthday was the same day I moved to Seattle, and it was a good story. Such a good story. Most of what we had was a good story. Until this week, when it was not.
We broke up last night.
Between this and Erika's funeral tomorrow, I am barely functioning. Voices are too loud. I can't eat. I am presently writing this on my phone and crying in the airport, waiting for my flight to L.A.
I keep telling myself that I've been through things that are just as difficult. I'm a tough bitch, I can deal, I've survived. But man, this hurts.
So if you're reading this (and hopefully you're taking a poo while doing so -- because I like poo and poo is good), can you please leave something happy in the comment section? Tell me a love story or a terrible joke. Send me your favorite cat video. Please something. Anything. I'd like to remember what it was like to laugh.
I'll start with this: