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In real life, real-life entries have been less drafty. I actually did graduate. I actually did publish. The whole big deal. I'm a master. Big deal.
I'm still seeing Mrs. E. How many years now? Too many to count. It's drafty if her office, too, except I talk out loud and I can't edit once I'm done.
I'm still tourmented by the past. It went away for a while. It had to - had to finish that thesis. Had to think of me. After I's death, thank goodness I had a thesis to think of me with. Otherwise, I might be with her.
Or not. Likely not because I have no guts. Hanging oneself takes guts. I'd need a gun. It's kind of like that red publish button. You can click it and be done.
Sorry. Not sorry, it's my blog, I can say what I want. Point is, I don't have a gun to leave a whole big deal for other people to deal with after I've decided 'big deal' for the last time.
I feel sick, honestly. For the last few months things had been going fine. I'd gone in memory isolation. What's there to remember aside from tea not to let steep too long. I almost felt like I had a life.
Tea's a fraud. In my zen life. Tea's make-pretend you have control your overly alcoholized non-zen life. A few months, things were going fine.
Things are not going fine.