Kneel and disconnect.

It's finally getting easier. I'm finally becoming comfortable with being alone again. Instead of every other day being bad, it's every two days, sometimes three if I'm lucky. It's getting better. I'm getting better.

But I'm not going to lie. Every time I see a white suburban within five miles of home - and this dirty old town is full of them - I picture you running to my door, crying, sobbing that you're sorry, folding me into your arms and kissing my forehead the way you used to. Just for a moment, I want it so badly. I want it the way the living want the dead.

But logic, my deepest friend, prevails. It's like a McDonald's commercial. You see the Big Mac and my god, it looks fucking delicious, look at that goddamned perfect cheese and lettuce and pickles and that's it, I'm going to get one right now. But what happens when you buy one? It's squished and sideways and the bun looks old and the cheese is too greasy and the patties are a bit burnt.

Nothing is ever as good as what we imagine it might be. Take heed.

I finally stopped wondering about her. Sure, it sneaks into my head sometimes, but it never even comes close to consuming me now.

And November is a distant worry. I have forced it from my heart.

I can't let myself think too much about the good times and all the sticky summer days I took for granted. That hurts more than anything else.