Mommy Wants Vodka

…Or A Mail-Order Bride

Christmas Miracles and Other Assorted Acts Of Baby Jesus.


In an effort to distract myself from the horrible sadness that always falls upon me right about…NOW every Christmas, I decided to check the sites that refer other people to my blog. It’s not something I really pay attention to very much because, well, obviously, and it’s kind of boring. But occasionally, it’ll lead me to some rad blogs I didn’t know existed.

Today, though, it lead me somewhere else.

Back to my very own page.

You don’t know what an page is? Me either. Not really. But I saw someone on The Twitter talking about it a couple of months ago and I was all IMMA GET ME AN ABOUT.ME PAGE, YO to my mirrored reflection. I didn’t know what it was then (it was in beta, which I think means “super awesome”) and I had to wait until this week to be told, “your page is ready, yo.”

Then, I was all, I GOT AN ABOUT.ME PAGE, YO, and everyone was all, what the hell is an page, Aunt Becky? And I was all, *shrugs* I don’t read fine print. I thought I’d figure it out when I got there. Which is my motto for life. was all, look at these other deep/meaningful profiles to help you make yours, Aunt Becky, except they weren’t like actually talking to me because that would be awkward. So I did, because obviously, and I was all, UGH, really? Because I am anything BUT deep/meaningful. And frankly, if you want someone to click on your profile, you should probably put something fucking INTERESTING on it. Calling yourself a “social media anything” is decidedly not interesting.

Just saying.

Because I take myself very seriously, this is what I came up with (my clickable profile)

I think you can click to enlarge. If you can’t, CLICK THE LINK and it’ll take you to my actual page.

Anyway, it’s clearly not something you should ever take seriously.

So I signed up and mostly forgot about it. I’ve been excruciatingly busy this week and really, I couldn’t figure out what to do with it beyond open it and laugh.

Upon checking my referrals, though, I noticed something FRIGHTENING. had more referrals to my blog than “John C. Mayer,” “sweater kittens,” “boring things,” and “sweater boobs,” COMBINED. I swear to you, Pranksters, I haven’t laughed that hard in weeks. Somehow, people are landing on my and finding their way here.

Sometimes, I really, really love the Internet.

Merry Christmas, Pranksters. From my page.

And this guy:

And who could forget this lovable chap?

Why, it’s Mr. Sprinkles, my fake dead cat! That charming scamp! That lovable lout!

And speaking of charming:

Alex and his Cupcake shirt, FOR THE WIN!

Benner and his picture smile.

And my daughter, Amelia, who has reminded me that even in the darkest darkness, there is always light.

Merry, Merry Christmas, Pranksters.

I Got Your Waldo Right Here, Baby


Where's Waldo?

Now admit it, Internet, you thought one of two things when you saw this picture of me in my Emo Glasses.

Either you looked frantically around for the red and white striped sweater and stupid beanie penis-shaped hat.


You expected the picture to come to life and pull out a guitar from some behind the bookcase and a hidden book of beat poetry. Then you expected it to sing a song about feelings, comparing feelings to a) flowers b) colors c) something completely incongruent, like ketchup.

Whatever you expected, there you have it. A picture of me, circa 2005, taken by this adorable moppet:


with a camera that had seen it’s better days. We returned from our honeymoon, only to download the pictures and notice that it appeared as though the lens had been smeared thickly with Vasoline for every. single. shot we’d taken.

Even the one like this:


showcasing both my awesome cornrows and my floppy, saggy boobies (it actually was the dress)(like I would lie about that)(seriously, I would tell you about my pooper and lie about my saggy boobies? As if.) that appears to have been taken underwater.

(and I realize that I look mighty dour to be on my honeymoon in beautiful St. Lucia, but I wasn’t unhappy, just very, very ill. Like, I should have stayed at home in bed ill. Plenty of sleep and antibiotics when you’re dead, right?)(right)

And I’ll round out an entry about absolutely nothing with a shot of my daughter, whom I alternately call “Doctor Love” or “Twinkle Toes.” Okay, now that is a total lie, because I call her “Goo” but that’s okay because she’s wearing shoes that I would give my left testicle for if I had such a thing:


Dear Shoe Manufacturers,

Please make shoes like this in my size.

And for shits and giggles and to present further proof that I am not only certifiable but also nuts, there is this,

Peekachoo Among The Orchids

My cat among the orchids.


And let me congratulate my friend, Mrs. Soup (that stinking hippie who took me to see Dave Matthews Band) for winning the contest, Aunt Becky Travels The World And Does Stuff!

In second place, I have Aunt Becky Does the Dirty South from my friend Amy D!

And in third, NOBODY puts Aunt Becky in a Corner! (now, more fitting than ever).

Winners, please send me your addresses to


Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me: Third Trimester Edition


*Defying all laws of time and space, the last month of pregnancy is significantly longer than the previous 8.

*All of the issues (nausea, sleepiness, vomiting, utter bat-shit craziness) that plagued you during trimester 1 will rear their ugly head yet again. Only it’s less charming this time.

*(especially if it’s your first baby) You’ll imagine each and every twinge to be the Start Of Labor and probably end up in L/D more times than you’d think only to be told that you’re not even contracting.

*After you have this baby, you’ll agree that nothing feels like labor except for…well, labor.

*Ending up in L/D and being sent home will make you feel more embarrassed than you’d imagine would be a logical reaction.

*Speaking of “logical,” you’re not. And you haven’t been for a long time. You won’t know how nuts you are until after the wee one comes and you realize that you no longer have any urge to clean the toliet with a toothbrush.

*Leaking pee will become a new and disgusting way of life. And you’ll occasionally think it’s your bag of waters breaking. It’s probably not. But, take it from me, get that fucker checked out.

*If you’re like me, the hospital bag you pack will go largely untouched, so don’t freak out. They’ll usually give you free ickle bottles of shampoo and the lot. Use these and then THROW THEM AWAY. Sure, you’re in L/D or Mother/Baby, but it’s still a hospital. And hospitals = germies.

*You will finally tire of talking about this baby because all that you can think about is how ready you are for this to be over.

*The fears of labor will quickly be replaced by the fears of never having this damn baby.

*Having wee feet kicking your internal organs and trying desperately to seperate your ribs from your spinal cord is just as charming (and painful) as you imagine it will be.

*Did I mention how off the rocker you are? Because you TOTALLY are.

*Once you hit 37 weeks, people will check in on you daily with one annoying question: have you had that baby yet? You may very well want to smack them.

*People will start snickering when you walk into a room. Presumably because you now look like Grimace. Or a Weeble.

*You will start to moan and groan every time you have to change positions. And you will be acutely aware of how dumb you sound and how feeble you now are.

*Try as best as you can to rest and revel in the attention people are paying to you right now. Because once that baby gets here, swollen and stitched up vagina and all, no one will give a flying crap about you. Just the baby.

*Your breasts are going to develop a mind (and body!) of their own. They will be equally as painful now as they were back in old trimester 1.

What am I missing, party people?

Somewhere A Band Is Softly Jamming Out To Low Rider


Long before I’d really experienced any sort of real loss, likely before I’d experienced any losses at all (except for perhaps the loss of a My Little Pony or three), I remember reading or hearing that death causes you to lose people in small ways for a long time rather than BOOM! all at once. I don’t have any idea why this stuck in my memory banks for any reason at all, but it has, and the older I get, the more I realize it’s true.

I was driving back from voting today, marveling at how this Indian Summer we’re having makes the warm breeze feel stolen and therefore better, I was noting how the trees were finally the shocking orange and red of fall, and suddenly as I was flipping through the radio stations, it came on.

‘It’ being the crappy 70’s song “Low Rider.”

Between the beautiful fall weather, which always makes me feel nostalgic, the fact that I saw in person my signature from 1998, the year I turned 18 and voted proudly for the first time, and the sudden funky rifts of “Low Rider,” I inhaled sharply and had to remind myself that the year was 2008, not 1998.

And it was remembering how I stole my friend Steph’s copy of the soundtrack of Dazed and Confused and never returned it. How she and I would cruise around in my Honda DelSol, hard top off no matter how cold it happened to be, smoking cigarettes and reeking of Opium perfume, while we jammed out to “Low Rider.” We’d laugh about how my tiny car would be our coffin in the case of a crash.

If any car could have a soundtrack, that one would be War’s “Low Rider” cranked to 11.

Those were good days, back then, back when our biggest worries were if we had enough smokes or cash to grab a cup of coffee. Back before anyone was addicted to anything besides nicotine and caffeine and potentially The Rolling Stones. Back before we had ex-boyfriends, or SURPRISE! children, or welfare stamps.

As I drove home, I wished desperately that Steph could be here, here on Earth, if not with me, to appreciate what an absolutely fucking beautiful day it was today. Because while other people might be rushing around too much, too obsessed with the election to notice how glorious it simply is today, she would have.

It made me so sad to realize that I can never hear “Low Rider”–potentially the world’s corniest and least sentimental song–again without feeling a deep sense of longing for my friend whose bones will never hear it again. I’ll never be able to smell Opium perfume without being harshly jangled back to the Good Old Days which, of course, as teenagers, we never realized WERE good old days, without wanting to cry for my friend. Who will never douse herself in it again. I’ll never be able to appreciate the true beauty of a stolen late fall day without being reminded that she’ll never again feel the breeze rippling across her skin.

Today, I will listen to “Low Rider” in honor of Steph, who should be here listening along side me.

Maybe, just maybe, she is.

Diary Of A Nervous Breakdown


A big and hearty thank you from the bottom of my shriveled and blackened heart should go out to each and every single person who thoughtfully left me a comment on my last post. Sometimes, it’s all I need to hear that I’m not alone, not really, in any of this.


“You told me goodbye, how was I to know
you didn’t mean goodbye, you meant please don’t let me go?”

-Grateful Dead, High Time

I’d been feeling pretty overwhelmed, this much I was aware of. The collective works of Auggie Doggie and Alex meant that my home was destroyed about 20 seconds after I’d painstakingly reached down–not so easy with a burgeoning belly– to clean up the shreds of (insert destroyable substance here). I’d petitioned loudly to find Auggie a new home, but my cries were loudly drown out by promises of puppy school and a better behaved dog (neither of which has happened, I feel I must disclose).

And I couldn’t really see how giving up Alex was going to help anything. But with him napping at most for 2 hours a day on a really, really good day, I’m still unable to catch much of a break from the perils of toddlerhood during the day. Sure, I might joke about it now and again, but Alex is easily one of the busiest and most intense children I know. Which is exhausting. Simply exhausting.

Dave works a job that make other women with small children cringe. His hours are intense, he commutes about an hour each way and is beholden to the Almighty Train Schedule, and what I mean by intense is that his hours are insane. He’s easily gone before the kids are up and back after they’re in bed. I joke that I’m a single parent during the week, because, well, I am.

After some major thing was passed by some governing body somewhere, he had to scramble madly to suddenly take care of something brand-spankin’ new and important…

(aside here: it’s ALL important, top priority where he works. At least, in their heads. As someone who is at least TRAINED to handle life threatening emergencies, I find it absurd.)

…which happened to eat up most of the weekends for the past month or so. And the nights AFTER he comes home. And pretty much any time I might have needed his help with something as simple as “watching the kids so I can shower” or “carrying large baskets of laundry up the stairs.” It’s uncanny and Big Brother-like his job is with picking THOSE moments to require his immediate attention.

But, his job is what allows me NOT to use my training in life threatening emergencies (since I hate it) to earn a living, and for the most part, he really, really likes it.

After fusing my eyelids shut by crying so intensely this weekend (and after Dave was called to work for yet another day off, in which I had such un-fun, yet necessary things that required his help like Going To The Grocery Store, and Buying Gigantic Underwear planned), I realized that something had, indeed, given, just like I’d wanted.

Problem was, it was my sanity.

All of those things, all of these things plus everything I haven’t mentioned here has been nothing but additive to my situation. While I’d occasionally try and subtract something, it never helped, primarily because I never have been able to determine what it was that I could safely subtract.

Sure, I could not feed the (dogs, cats, rabbits, kids) but it wasn’t really THEIR fault that I had no one to help me out. Plus, with the exception of the rabbit, the rest of them would merely follow me around, getting underfoot until I tripped over them and fell SPLAT! on my large ass.

I think we’re going to hire a nanny or a babysitter for a couple hours a day for me so that I can actually do such chores that require me to go from the main floor to the other floors of the house without Alex having an abject temper tantrum (Ben had the Terrible Threes, Alex seems to have started with the Terrible Ones. This bodes ill.).

But, as anyone who has been overwhelmed (underwhelmed?) and feeling remarkably unstable knows, things like this, which are a process, not an event, can feel remarkably daunting when faced with all the steps to get from here to there. Stupid platitudes like “one day at a time” (something I’d normally appreciate) don’t really work right now, since I’m not sure how I’m going to make it through the next hour, let alone an entire day.

I started back on my Vitamin W yesterday, and while I can’t say I’m feeling loads better already, I’m glad I’ve taken a positive step towards getting better. After all, January is a long way off, and I’m pretty sure that new babies aren’t known for easing responsibilities, right?

Oh well. At least I’m lactating for her already. How sexy is that?

For Where Your Treasure Is, There Will Your Heart Be Also.


One of my best friends died this February at the age of 26, leaving behind two young sons. Her death changed me nearly as much as having her in my life did, and I find that no matter how hard I try, I’m unable to write about her very much. It’s not because I don’t think of her because I do, daily if not longer, but I’m too afraid to write about her.

What if I get it wrong? What if I try to tell the most important story I can think of and it’s all wrong? I can’t bear to think of not doing it right for Steph, so I don’t do it at all.

But I want to tell you.

I want each and every one of you to know who she is, who she was, and what she meant to me. How she was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. And how there is now a gigantic hole in my heart now that she’s gone. I want you to know how things will never be the same now that she’s gone from the world.

And I will.

I got word this morning that her older brother died yesterday; died of a freak accident, so my stories today will have to wait for yet another day. He died, leaving behind a wife and two small kids, leaving behind parents who have buried two adult children in a little over six months.

He died, and although I’m not an uber-Christian, I like to imagine that he’s meeting Steph up there in Heaven. I like to imagine that all of the loved ones that I lose down here are hanging out together and waiting patiently for the rest of us to join them, one by one. That’s how I find comfort in her death: imagining a day when we can all be together again.

And sometimes, sometimes it makes me less angry that she’s not down here with all of us.

I Remember


I remember sitting and clutching my squally infant son, born mere weeks before, as I watched the second plane fly into the Twin Towers. I remember holding him and crying myself, wondering how I could have been so awful as to bring a brand new baby into a world where stuff like this happens.

I remember crying for all of the parents and children who died that day, now knowing just how much they had lost. I remember being afraid, so very afraid, of what was going to happen next.

I remember now, and I wonder: what will I tell my son who was there with me that day, the two of us against the world?

What do you remember?

She’s A 90210 Type Of Ho


With the prospect of having some of my stories being not only for public consumption but also for purchase, I’ve been thinking quite a bit about names. Specifically, my own name.

I’ve been blogging for years now, although not always here on Mommy Wants Vodka, and I’ve made no real effort to hide who I am. I mention my hometown (St. Charles, Illinois), my name (Aunt Becky), my husband (The Daver) and my children (Alex and Ben), and I’m not sorry about it. Plenty of my friends in real life and in the computer read my blog, and even if they don’t comment, I know that they are here.

My parents do not read my blog, not because they don’t know about it, but because they never ask. Besides, I write here just like I speak in real life (without the parenthesis and flagrant usage of commas, of course) so none of this is new to them. They did raise me after all, and are pretty accustomed to my colorful ways of describing things. Like my vagina.

Plenty of people feel really strongly about blogging anonymously, for some valid reasons and some not so valid reasons, and I totally get behind that. Especially if you’re talking trash about people or subjects you don’t care to tell the whole world about it makes sense.

I was reading in the new issue of Wired, one of my favorite magazines (also in this issue: How To Become An Internet Superstar. Interestingly, the highlighted person I had never heard of) about this new project called the Personal Genome Project. What was the most interesting thing I found that I would care to discuss here (I’m a bit of a genetics geek, so the whole article kinda gave me a boner) was that if you go to this website, you can read about Philip Church. Ad nauseum.

Why the hell would someone disclose so freaking much about himself? Simple. Like me, he thinks that this sort of trivia is meaningless, something completely uninteresting to the average person.

This is precisely WHY I would and frequently do disclose as much as I do. What are you going to do, stalk me? Steal my dog with bladder control issues or my cat with a crusty ass? Be my guest. My life is pretty dull. Sometimes I tell good stories, sometimes I attract drama, sometimes I don’t.

So, hi, Internet. My name is Becky Sherrick Harks and this is my blog. Nice to meet you all.

And no, not one of those men is my husband.

Your turn. Why do you blog anonymously or not?

‘Til The Deal Goes Down


On Sunday, as The Daver and I were strolling happily through Mecca (read: Target) I realized that I couldn’t remember when I had my period last, and decided that I should probably know one way or another what was up (down?) with my uterus. I picked up a pack of generic pregnancy tests and went on my merry way.

Because of my exhaustively documented squirrel-sized bladder, I had to whiz when we got home and figured now was the time to break out the ole pee sticks.

I feel I must clarify several things here before I continue.

First, I have to be pretty religious about making certain that I am or am not with fetus, honestly for medical reasons (I’d explain but you’d probably try to impale yourself with your monitor or keyboard because it’s so mind-numbingly dull. Just know that I need to know the status of my uterus). If I didn’t have to, I’d just as soon not find out right away, because then The Worry will begin and I will become unhappy, obsessive, and probably start to smell bad.

Secondly, just for the people who would click away furiously at the audacity of my fertility, I am not pregnant. It’s a spoiler, for sure, but I think it’s necessary to tell you this ahead of time. Maybe it’s not as dramatic this way, but hey, we do what we can.

Anyway, moving back to the story, now that I’ve filled you in on those delicious details, so here I am, whizzing on a peestick shamefully (I am totally ashamed of taking pregnancy tests. Isn’t that the most juvenile thing you’ve ever heard? YES, I AM 27 YEARS OLD, I HAVE TWO KIDS AND I AM SHAMED BY PREGNANCY TESTS. Pathetic.) and expecting one lone line to show up. And sure enough, that line does show up, and is followed by a second line several minutes later.

I am so shocked that I say nothing to anyone, finishing my planting and puttering uselessly about while I wonder what the hell that means. Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me, as I happen to have the patience of a toddler and I trundle shamefully back to the bathroom where I comense to piss on yet another stick (grumbling about both the cost and the quality, I must add, because I am one crotchety bitch), where I expect, well, I don’t know.

Eventually those two lines show up again, and I realize that I probably should tell my husband that punching himself in the balls does not an at-home vasectomy equal. Not being the most sentimental bitch on the block, I don’t know what else to do but to place my piss-covered stick, complete with two lines in front of him on the table. He looks at it and then back at me, clearly confused as to what I have put in front of him.

Not knowing what else to say, I tell him “congrats” and tell him that it looks like we might be having another child. We both spend the rest of Sunday night in a daze, a happy daze but a daze nonetheless.

Figuring that I might as well deplete my three pack the following morning before I call all of my doctor’s offices, I pull out my last stick Monday morning and stick it in my pee. And sure enough, that control line pops up. And absolutely nothing else. Ever.

So I think to myself, well, a digital test, you know, the kind you were too damn cheap to shell out for would probably give you a better answer, figuring one out of three tests could be wrong.

Statistically, it was still more likely that I was pregnant, especially considering after years of peeing on sticks shamefully I have never seen a second line (i.e. positive test) unless I was, in fact, with child. And again, it’s fairly important that I know one way or another.

I packed Alex up and headed to Walgreens, where I picked up a digital test and immediately head home to whiz on it. I pretty much hate those digital tests because it always seems so damn smug when “Not Pregnant” pops up (just so you know, every time I put my weight in the box at weight watchers online and it chides me for not losing or having lost too much, I always get the sense that it’s talking smack to me. I am quite certifiable, eh?), and sure enough the blinky “Not Pregnant” pops up and then I do know for sure that I am not, in fact, pregnant.

The period this morning solidified it for me.

I mean it’s not like we’ve been humping for a purpose, honestly I can’t take the stress of that (not the orgasms, the “am I pregnant or is that just gas” obsessing that I do when trying to get pregnant), and we both agreed that we’ll take our chances for a third, should that ever happen (before you rue my fertility, let me tell you that it’s been over a year now and still nothing. Strangely I am okay with that). So we’re not trying and we’re not NOT trying either.

But The Daver and are both feeling well, just a touch blue about it. I mean, if I was pregnant for a nanosecond and miscarried it super early, it’s not like I’m going to grieve over it. If it was anything it was a bunch of cells multiplying badly, and shit, seriously, it’s better that it happened now rather than later. Later I’d be upset, now I’m just a might bit blue.

Who knows, it could have been a bad batch of tests. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell happened, and I probably never will. I’d venture a guess that it was probably a really early miscarriage, but I don’t know. I mean, whatever, right? I’ll call one of my many doctors tomorrow, get a shot in the old butt and move the hell on with my life. All that I can do at this point.

All that I know for sure right is that the grey, rainy day today was the perfect fit for my cranky-assed mood.

And The Angels Beating All Their Wings In Time


One of the last truly happy memories I have of my friend Steph was when we went together to see the Rolling Stones. I loved The Stones, but Steph was obsessed. Her bedroom walls were literally papered floor to ceiling with pictures of Mick and The Boys carefully cut from magazines, and she had a typical girlish crush (read: obsession) with Mick Jagger.

Saw you stretched out in room ten-o-nine
With a smile on your face
And a tear right in your eye

I can still see her in my mind’s eye, if I try hard enough, huge smile on her face as she belted out the lyrics to all of the songs (of which, I personally knew only a fraction) while taking drags off her Camel Wide Light.

Couldn’t seem to get a line on you
My sweet honey love

That was my friend.

The same friend who smelled like a garden with me, the same friend who threw my baby shower when I was pregnant with Ben. She (and Ashley) are the reason that for every party I throw, I must have a cutout Hula Girl thrown up somewhere (we found it along with every color of the rainbow baby dolls in our quest for the Tackiest Shower Decorations Ever). She was my introduction to flavored coffees and Opium perfume. I think I still have her copy of “Goat’s Head Soup” somewhere.

Well, you’re drunk in the alley, baby
With your clothes all torn
And your late night friends
Leave you in the cold gray dawn
Just seemed too many flies on you
I just can’t brush them off

Somewhere, probably up in Heaven, she is laughing at me right now. I can almost hear it’s distinctive peal tinkling over me as I write this. She’s sitting up in Heaven surrounded by stacks of every Rolling Stones record (even the unreleased B-Sides) ever recorded, drinking her ubiquitous cup of coffee, with a carton of Camel Wide Lights by her side, and she is laughing.

She had a beautiful laugh. It was the sort that made you smile no matter what mood you were in, the kind that made other people around you stop and look around for the source (but not because it was annoying or grating, but because it was so full of happiness). I always wished I’d had a laugh like that, and now I just wish I could hear her laugh again.

Tonight I bury my friend.

And the angels beating all their wings in time
With smiles on their faces
And a gleam right in their eyes
Thought I heard one sigh for you
Come on up, come on up, now
Come on up, now

(I am linking here so that you may go over and see what she looked like. I don’t have a scanner, so I cannot scan a picture in of her right this moment like I’d like to).

This week, I’ve been posting under titles ripped from Rolling Stones lyrics as a (pathetic) tribute to Steph, as I know she would have liked it. I don’t have any better way to commemorate her yet, so I will likely continue doing so from time to time. Maybe it’s not as permanent as a tattoo, but it’s something.

One of my own favorite Stones songs has always been “Shine a Light,” but it always confused me until Steph died. The ebullient chorus coupled with the really depressing stanzas always seemed such a disconnect until I looked at them in this light. When I reread the lyrics, it made perfect sense.

Now, if this were anyone else, I’d have scoured The Internet looking for a poem or quote to dedicate, but Steph probably wouldn’t have appreciated that nearly as much. It just wasn’t the way she rolled.

And normally, I refrain from posting lyrics to songs because it makes no fucking sense and offers very little emotion without the music behind it, but today isn’t a normal day.

May the Good Lord shine a light on you
Make every song you sing your favorite tune
May the Good Lord shine a light on you
Warm like the evening sun.

The world is a colder place having lost Steph, although I am certain she is far happier where she is now. But I’m a selfish prick, and I want her back. I don’t want to be attending her funeral tonight. I don’t want to bury my friend.

I want her to come back and tell me that this was the ultimate prank. I want her to jump out from behind a door and yell “Psych!” and laugh uproariously at my stunned reaction. I want her to be who she was before the disease took her Shine away from her, and I want her to get her life back on track. I want to have coffee and play dates with her, I want our children to grow up together as good friends, I want to sit around and reminisce about the dumb shit we did when we were kids. I want to get old with her and start switching to decaf and vitamins, rather than coffee and cigarettes, I want to laugh with her again.

I don’t want to bury her tonight.

She was my friend and I loved her very much and I don’t want her to be dead.

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