Lonely

Seth has been gone since Monday evening, away on business. Thankfully, he'll be home late tonight. 
As it turns out, I don't like sleeping alone like I once did...
So far I've had back-to-back vivid dreams of both Danielle, and Nanny. And, Harry Potter.
Currently reading The Chamber of Secrets.

Serotonin in My Brain

To be real, remembering St. John's wort was a wonderful feeling after struggling mid morning. If I miss a pill, especially the morning dose, life tends to go a bit dark.
I need to hang on to all of the serotonin in my brain for as long as possible.
Sometimes, I am ashamed of still being in mourning, which is something that needs to end.
I just need to focus on what helps, and actively avoid all of my self-set traps because otherwise, sadness rules the day.

My Type

Milo Yiannopoulos. I've watched several of his lectures, and various youtube videos starring him. If you haven't heard of Milo, many people loathe his existence based on his political beliefs.

I don't agree with much of what he says, but could not seem to get enough, and wanted to know why.

So, I looked up his natal chart.

Turns out the moon was in Leo when he was born, same as my husband. Same as David Bowie. And George Michael. (I was in love with both of these guys as a kid, and their deaths in 2016 had a real effect on me.)

I just have a thing for people with Leo moons.

A Year, Already?

Grief is like remembering a bittersweet, terrifying nightmare.

Checking out at Target about a month ago, I noticed two girls at the next register. One of them had visible veining in her face, which reminded me of Danielle, making me cry on the spot.

The girls were about 8-9 years old; the same age Danielle and I were when my family moved into the townhouse across the street from hers.

The age when we became BFF's.

She had this blue roadmap of veining that showed through the skin of her eyelids and her cheeks, and I remember being completely fascinated at the sight.

It was such a strong contrast; all of her strength on the inside, yet she appeared absolutely vulnerable with nearly translucent skin.

Thanks, Putin

I've been wondering all this time what will replace the sarcastic, sardonic "Thanks, Obama" whenever something doesn't go my way, like breaking a nail, or tripping over a rug.

"Thanks, Putin" is just depressing. I'll be thanking him for all of the truly fucked up policies this fat cat administration will be wheeling and dealing.

What a Fucking Year to Journal

There are only a few days left to this year. It's both naive and optimistic of me to believe that 2017 will mark a fresh start, but the flip side is far too dark to think about. 

RIP Carrie Fisher.

Not George Michael. Please, No.

I'm a quiet crier for the most part. One thing this year has taught me about myself is that as soon as I start crying hard, after hearing horrible news, it can sound like I'm laughing at first.

fuckinghell