Things certainly aren’t perfect, I mean look at the shit-hole I woke up in:

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Hi Creamsicle.

”It smells like a cat in here.”

But for the first time, really in my entire fucking life, I feel like things are working out. I spent too much for a car to be realistic in the short term, but I still have quite a bit, and that fun DIY gig I was fundraising for is actually starting to happen.

(I may have to beg for money again, for an eye exam and glasses, so I don’t have to deplete my savings too much.)

I’m even starting—maybe, “starting” means as of today, and I’ve only been up for two hours—to do less drugs.

I actually want for my life to get better, not for want of them to come back but for my own wellbeing.

But still, I really really really really really can’t live with the idea that they’re gone forever. I have to tell myself that once I’m better (parta why I twacked out on them is because of how shit my life was then) they will want to be friends with me again. There was a time when they wanted to be friends with me, before I started acting like a weirdo. And they’re the type of person who, I think, would be understanding if someone were to genuinely change. Sometimes I think there’s a chance this is tough love anyways—they know that if they talk to me it would be like giving vodka to an alcoholic. It’s easy for me to think of them as a mean bitch who’s just fucking tired of my shit and doesn’t care anymore, but they’re such a sweet person. I’ve never known them to be that mean nasty bitch they are in my head.

It makes me so angry when people tell me to move on. They really don’t understand. I’m moving on as much as I can. But I’ll never not hope that I’ll see them again. A friend of mine told me he’s confident that I will—I kinda think he’s full of shit but who knows.