It's a blessing that he was sequestered for the last two weeks, because I'm not expecting to see him in the living room or kitchen, and the other cats grew accustomed to him not being around. It's a curse because he was sequestered in my bedroom, so when I walk in there, I have the tidal wave of grief. I fall asleep to it. I wake up to it.
the roses red my bedroom tomorrow. Purple. Because we've been meaning to, and because I need to make it not The Room Jack Was Dying In. We're pondering an IKEA trip for a new duvet - the one Jack inadvertently used as a litterbox won't fit in our washing machine, and none of us can deal with the idea of scrubbing it by hand. Judah will treat, he says. Either way, we are painting, and will perhaps get to hang art.
My last surviving Grandma has cancer. Probably of the everything, at this point, they think. She presented with the same symptoms as Jack, because of course. They're not sure whether she'll choose treatment. We'll know more next week.
I am absolutely exhausted from this week. This month. This year.
Working on dealing with all the stuff I've been putting off for weeks. Then writing. I proposed a gag story idea on Twitter and I think I have a way to make it work? And anyway I should take a second look at "This Is Not a Ghost Story", see if I can figure out how to fix it.