Two goddamn months and I'm still not over it. I kind of wish I could say I was okay with it, but that would imply that in some small part, this situation is even remotely okay. As if the idea that the first person I ever really loved dying is somehow just peachy keen. I mean Christ, when you ask someone my age about their relationship troubles, they usually say something about not spending enough time together or not talking enough. Meanwhile, I have to contend with the fact that the one person who could make me feel beautiful just by smiling at me is in box six feet underground in Windsor fucking Ontario (a city I'll be cursing to my grave).
All in all, the entire thing has validated my opinion that pessimism is the most rational way to go about life. Think about it this way:
If you're optimistic, you're only two available outcomes to life are either a sense of moderate contentment, or crippling disappointment. But if you never get your hopes up about anything, you'll already be prepared for whatever shit comes your way, or you will forever be pleasantly surprised. It's like Christmas: When you got what you expected, it didn't mean as much as all the cool, surprising shit you never thought you'd get, right? Likewise, it sucks when you don't get what you want for Christmas. It's like flipping the world's most existential coin: Heads, you're okay. Tails, everything is just horribly depressing. Sometimes it's best to just not take that chance to begin with.
If that sounds cold and bitchy...Well, that's probably because it is. On top of my current feelings of doom and gloom, I've been getting zero sleep lately because of some seriously effed nightmares. I mean REALLY effed. The kind where evil demon witches trap you in a car and splatter blood-filled corpses on the windshield. I normally don't talk about dreams, mostly because they're fucking boring as hell, but when your dreams feature bodies that burst like satan's personal water balloons, that's usually the time when you should start talking about that. If dreams are your subconscious' way of making sense of things, I'm pretty sure my subconscious is trying to fucking murder me.
Anyway, point is that no matter how much I say otherwise, I might not be quite as fine and okie-doke as I say I am. Sorry, but you're asking me to be okay about a situation that is so far away from okay you'd need a passport and five hours in customs just to get back to being okay.