my gramma is in the hospital and I am mad about it. I'm mad at the world that she got sick. she does not get sick. she is eighty-one years old and still works three days a week, "helping out the old duffers," as she says. she still chops her own kindling for the wood stove. she beats me every time we play scrabble. and she should not be sick.
ever.
:.
(I have a hard time with mortality in general, I will admit. but specifically here.)
.:.
once back in the early days c remarked wistfully, isn't this so lovely now to be here together, and so amazing that soon enough we'll both be gone.
I felt sickened and sad and wanted to punch him. I am no decadent. mentioning death to me is not romantic.
reminding me of how we're all going to die falls much more into the realm of topics to make me gag with discomfort and sadness.