Every morning it starts. Sitting here with my own thoughts.
“God, I miss him. I really, really miss him! How long has it been now since ‘jalopy’? Let me see…Jalopy was early April…the 3rd, I think. It’s nearly September FFS! *counts on fingers* FIVE MONTHS!! Jesus Christ! He must really hate me! What have I done to piss him off so much?! Why won’t he talk to me? What can I do to fix it? And if by some miracle he ISN’T pissed off with me, can he just give me a sign, please? SOMETHING! Throw me a bone. I miss him.”
Cries like an idiot. “You stupid fucking menopausal bitch. Let it go.”
Repeat. Seven days a week.
