I forgot to write until far too late. I’m sorry. Happy midnight. Everything went pretty well today: Grandma got me a gift card, and Mom got me some clothes and a book. Then we ordered pizza from a new place (the usual place is closed on Tuesdays, astoundingly), and the pizza was fairly bad, but that was fine. No cake this year, but this instead:
I spent the afternoon reading the book outside. The book is called ‘May We Be Spared to Meet on Earth’ It was pretty nice out today. Laura, Grandma, and Aunt Karen also called. Grandma, Aunt Karen, Aunt Linda, and Uncle Terry might go on vacation in Liverpool this fall or spring. They want to see where the Beatles were hanging out. Since Aunt Linda can’t fly (some medical reason), they’ll probably go on a boat.
I’m not very articulate today, per usual. To talk about the tragic cycle of missing holidays and holiday would feel like treading around the same circle again. But it’s the circle we’re stuck on. Last time I was in Ohio, in 2019, I had a sort of Lovecraftian vision of walking the infinite flat topography until I tracked blood behind me. That’s what time feels like these days. We come around again, to another missed birthday, where you don’t give me socks and I don’t laughingly admonish you for giving me socks, and I don’t give you a hasty watercolor of a violin that you put in your closet forever. And there’s blood all over the carpet.
Here is me lounging this afternoon with the evil men in the backyard. My favorite genre of photo is ‘pet in the backyard’ since it feels very cheerful.
They started making weird noises at me, so I started imitating the noise back. They didn’t like it.
I must sleep now. I miss you everyday. I didn’t kill myself when I was thirteen because I didn’t want to make your life even worse. So every birthday now is dedicated to you.
With love,
Alice