No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no
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#photoadaymay TWENTYNINE: a number.

Realms and portals and time and space oh my.
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#photoadaymay TWENTYSEVEN: the weather today.

(Source: doproudhomo)

Oh my god, dude. I almost just figured out just now that you are never coming back. Almost. What the hell.
This is not ok. Shit is not ok over here. Do something!

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#photoadaymay TWENTYSIX: sweet.

I’m about to be a fuhhhcking bitch about this so stop reading if you think you might judge my irrationality in any way.
I hate the poster. I’ve seen it six times today and I hate it. Not because it’s ugly, no it’s lovely. Super lovely. No. That just makes me hate it more.
It’s this: Who the fuck printed them?? Who the fuck put them up??? Who are these people who keep “caring” and “loving” and “feeling” all this shit? Who is going to come to the show with any real understanding in any way? The same fucking people who I OVERHEAR in the halls at work talking about how awesome his band was or the people I see on the Internet who I have never met getting his goddamn initials tattooed on themselves.
People who have no fucking idea who I even am.
You want to know who I am? No, you people don’t actually care. You have no need to know of ME. You know enough already.
But here it is! I was asleep beside him! I woke up like I did every day before! I moved a little and expected him to move. He didn’t move. That was weird. I touched him lightly. He still didn’t move. I opened my eyes. He was laying funny kind of half off the bed. I said “hey, you’re laying funny” and he didn’t respond. I touched him more. He felt cold. I said his name. He didn’t move. I did more saying of things I don’t remember before I rolled him over. I can’t even describe anymore because that moment plays over and over in my head constantly and takes over every molecule of my being. It plays constantly underneath every thought I have. It was worse than you think it could be. It is worse every time I think about it.
That was the human I most closely identified with. And at that moment he was gone.
So I walk past a wall and there are his eyes on a poster. I haven’t been able to look at those eyes for 14 weeks. And now everyone is looking at them on a poster. On a fucking poster that I didn’t put there. He isn’t mine anymore. He is everyone’s.
So I hate it. And I hate your instagram feed. And your stupid twitter and your blog and your ugly ass tattoo. And every “I’m so sorry Rena”, I hate those too. I hate it all. I shouldn’t but I do.
I’m sorry. No I’m not. Im sorry. No I’m not. Fuck off.
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#photoadaymay TWENTYFUCK - fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

I am at a crossroads. I have to decide if there is nothing beyond death or if there is everything beyond death. I am afraid that I lean towards nothing. How can I think that? How can I live like that? Believing that he is just completely gone, that every beautiful powerful incredible thing he was is just gone? I can’t fucking live like that.
I think no matter what I actually THINK I have to force myself to BELIEVE in something more. I must believe that he is here with me, and simultaneously with his sister or his best friend or his parents or all of his friends, because if I don’t believe this then I simply can’t continue. I have no further reason to continue. I require this reason in order to keep going, without it I have no motivation or ability or desires or needs. If there is nothing more than this then I am nothing at all and must just stop right now.
And I can’t fucking do that. So whether I like it or not I have to believe. I believe you are here, holding my head up for me. Because if you are not then I simply won’t do it for myself anymore.
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#photoadaymay TWENTYFIVE: unusual. Yes it was quite unusual to find a poster of your face today.

WAKE UP. WAKE THE FUCK UP.
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#photoadaymay TWENTYFOUR: something new. New? Seriously? Fuck off.

Sometimes you have a whole day where you have decided, for certain, that there is absolutely nothing after death, that the experience of being conscious ends when the systems of the body no longer function, that the spirit exists only as an effect of the state of being alive. You are certain. All day.
Then you come home and have a bizarre trance-like daydream where he is yelling at you as hard as he can to listen to him and know that he is still here with you and not going anywhere.
Mother of all of everything I wish I knew the truth.
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#photoadaymay TWENTYTHREE: technology. Coffee technology.

Yesssss

unhistorical:

H.P. Lovecraft on Cats and Cat-lovers

Well, the man loved his cats. He once wrote a long-winded but loving essay on them (and specifically, why they’re superior to dogs), which can be read here.