Maybe I get depressed every year around your birthday. I don't know for sure. Maybe it's because I went on a manpage and ate a fuckload of red meat, broke out in teenage pimples, road a bike around until I died a flaming red faced hyperventilating death? Here's the point. I promised 2 people my attention this week and I don't care. I'm supposed to do coffee with my favorite queer. I'm supposed to go malling with my sisterbrother. And my Smother is guilt tripping me with her "I'm not calling anymore if you don't answer this message *calls again*"
People are paying attention to me. And it would be a stupid time to die. But I can't help but get rid of this feeling that I want to full out fucking die.
Like everything hormonal, it'll pass if I wait.
But you didn't wait, and next week you would've turned 28. I would've added you on facebook to comment on pictures of how adorable your kids are. Scheduled coffee dates that neither of us ever followed through on. Sent random, "Where did you get your tattoo done" messages.
But, 7 years later, I'll be going to the fireworks downtown silently wishing you a happy birthday. Thinking of how I'm still alive, how I amounted to more than you did only to die in this fucking apartment.
