Letters for Muscles
March 6
My Dearest Muscles,
They had a funeral for you today, but they didn’t have a body to bury. Chandler asked if I wanted to go. I didn’t, but he went anyway. Somebody had to take the flag.
Practically, things are okay. Emotionally, I can’t function.
I fell asleep for a little bit last night, and I dreamed that you came home. You showed me all your scars, and they’d healed so well. We talked, but you had somewhere to go, and I couldn’t stop you. You wouldn’t stay with me.
I woke up sad.
I was depressed and tired all day.
I think I’m getting sick, either that or I’m just not hungry anymore. Gabe and I had a terribly makeshift dinner of cereal and wine. I’m about to fall asleep as I write this.
The sadness doesn’t end. Gabe told me it’s strong enough to be able to get out of bed and simply exist every day, but I wonder if it’d just be better to stay in bed because that seems like a better alternative—grieve fully, grieve deeply, then start to emerge instead of living in an endless sea of trying to smile while my entire world has ended.
I cry in the shower. I cry in Chandler’s car. I cry at my desk. I cry in bed. I cry when somebody is nice to me.
You made my life so brilliant, Dean. You had such a talent for turning shit into champagne.
I miss you more than words could ever hope to describe.
I love you beyond life,
Blondie
They had a funeral for you today, but they didn’t have a body to bury. Chandler asked if I wanted to go. I didn’t, but he went anyway. Somebody had to take the flag.
Practically, things are okay. Emotionally, I can’t function.
I fell asleep for a little bit last night, and I dreamed that you came home. You showed me all your scars, and they’d healed so well. We talked, but you had somewhere to go, and I couldn’t stop you. You wouldn’t stay with me.
I woke up sad.
I was depressed and tired all day.
I think I’m getting sick, either that or I’m just not hungry anymore. Gabe and I had a terribly makeshift dinner of cereal and wine. I’m about to fall asleep as I write this.
The sadness doesn’t end. Gabe told me it’s strong enough to be able to get out of bed and simply exist every day, but I wonder if it’d just be better to stay in bed because that seems like a better alternative—grieve fully, grieve deeply, then start to emerge instead of living in an endless sea of trying to smile while my entire world has ended.
I cry in the shower. I cry in Chandler’s car. I cry at my desk. I cry in bed. I cry when somebody is nice to me.
You made my life so brilliant, Dean. You had such a talent for turning shit into champagne.
I miss you more than words could ever hope to describe.
I love you beyond life,
Blondie