You'd think that these kind of thoughts would eventually leave, and maybe for a normal person they do, but they're still hiding in the crevices inside my skull, lurking underneath the cobwebs and tunnels until one day springing up and slapping me in the face.

I don't know how people accept death and loss. I think it's impossible. I think what actually happens is that they forget. I'm forgetting. I cry less often now, but not because I've accepted what happened, but because of my own blessed memory deficit that doesn't remind me of what happened often enough to warrant me crying every day. Because those few still working neurons that are wriggling around in my head will sometimes by sheer miraculous chance meet, and the sparks of my memory starts flowing through, and goddamn, I remember everything, and I start to cry again and feel like that miserable day when I heard the news and holed myself up in the bathroom to cry for hours.

As time goes by and my brain tumbles down into ruins and my memory follows suit and drills itself into uselessness, it gets easier and easier to forget, and I don't cry as much, but what's the point of that if I'm left an idiot.

I am a goddamn mess. For today, I am a goddamn mess. I'll clean up my act by tomorrow. And then I won't be a goddamn mess, and I'll be the goddamn infinitely awesome me who's going to stay at home all day and study, because that's all I know how to do and nothing else.

I am done.