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3 things that made me happy today

1) everyone on phones at work was nice & friendly

2) I ate healthy meals for once

3) was able to confide in my mom and get the best support back. such a divine being.

how do you get over something like this? how do you say “i need to be strong, and i need to move on, and everything will be okay” ?

when all the memories and all the photographs and all the times you laughed at my 200 open tabs on my phone say otherwise.

how do you go from being in love to not being anything, and not feel my heart murmur every time someone says your name

you can’t. you don’t. 

It’s a…bird?

“Okay, I lied. I didn’t actually hook up with Brendan”


“Well, that was a pretty mundane assumption for a bunch of PhD’s,” she said, throwing her bag on the couch followed by herself, with equal vigor. “All you saw was me leaving the party with him”

“Uh, and your text?! ‘Hfb gyus hokng p w2 brdn!!!!1’?”

“Wait, give me that,” she said, grabbing the phone out of Merrel’s hand. “Okay, that’s totally supposed to say… Have you guys seen a bird. Because I lost…my bird.”

“Your bird?” Merrel asked, half-amused, half-skeptical, as China chimed in, “the letters don’t even match—”

“Yes, okay. My bird. My aunt got me this bird when she was here visiting, and I kind of lost him”

“Whatever Stace. My only problem right now is I can’t tell if you made up the text or if you actually did hook up with him because of this new bird thing”

Stacy rolled her eyes and said, “Not my problem. Anyway, I gotta get to my meeting. Love you guys, bye”

She pulled out a pair of sunglasses that covered most of her face (she had a pretty small face, she told herself) and strode out into the sunlight. She cursed her black hair for soaking up the sun. “Can I get a break?!” she screamed upward.

As though to answer her, a cloud snuck in front of the sun, and Stacy muttered a grudging “thank you” as she put her lipgloss on. This meeting was important.

What makes art so devastating?

What is it about art that makes us so vulnerable? Like my skin is going to crumble around me and my heart is weeping, weeping, weeping…

What is it about a wood and a few strings that can play the melody of your soul? 

About reading a fictional character has been doomed eternally to the black hole that is cancer? He’s not real, nothing is real, but I am real, and I am falling apart.

What makes art so devastating? 

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