I’ve obsessively cleaned every inch of my apartment and done all my laundry and even changed my sheets. I’ve put away clothes I don’t wear and shampooed my makeup brushes and laid them out to dry.
Now that my room is pristine, I’ve lit my most expensive scented candle ceremoniously as that is always the last step of a cleaning binge.
And now I’m listening to terribly sad music in the dark and enjoying it in a very sadistic way. And my best friend is coming into town tomorrow because last she heard I was eating ice cream in my pajamas and she cancelled her plans to come pull me out of this seven stages of grief crap. At least my apartment is presentable and ready for company and she’ll be proud that meanwhile I’ve made it from ice cream in pajamas to candles and Adele.
But to be completely honest, this doesn’t feel like grief.
It should, though.
So maybe I can show some courtesy and tomorrow I won’t wash my hair.
Vanity Fair - series
Shortness of breath & buckets of drool…
He is handsome in a careless way.
where is the warning that says “this is irreversible”