St. Joseph's Baby Aspirin

So, last night, I was standing up on my friend Ben's balcony, getting high, and he asks me if I'm alright. Literally, he just turns to me, and asks me directly, showing more concern than I think he ever has in our few months of friendship, 'Paige, you alright?'

The Ferriers have come and gone. As has Lisa. As has all the work I haven't done. As have the miniature, day to day existential crises. I don't remember when it became so hard to hold it all together. I'm sorry for lots of things. I want to go home, away, somewhere where I'll be permitted to waste away ruthlessly, just for a little while. This is dribble. Everything I write is dribble. I am talentless. Unloving. Selfish. We all are.

So I guess that's what I'm trying to overcome, the fact that all us unloving, selfish beings are supposed to, somehow, maintain reliable, meaningful connections with each other.

But, what are you gonna do? Brigid comes tomorrow. We're gonna get our meditation on. Perhaps I'll be back later, with a less tragic recap of the last weekish.