And the calendar's cluttered with days that are numbered...

Every day is End of Days.   I stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables a week before Prince died and said, "If something happens to Prince, put me on suicide watch."   I've yet to be forgiven.  And a few weeks ago when You Want It Darker was released, I sat listening to Songs From a Room and thought to myself, "What am I gonna do when Leonard Cohen dies?"... I mourned Leonard Cohen alone in a hotel bed. After dining alone in a town unknown to me, a stranger in a hotel bar.  Fitting.  I dare not even think the names of the songwriters still breathing that I worship every day.  I've fallen radio silent.   I know.  The weight of the world affecting me more than I had anticipated.--Election fatigue, the 2016 deadpool, a cloud covered supermoon, Sophia Urista not even making it to the top 12 on The Voice.
When I was a kid I listened to my friends talk about kissing boys and holding hands.  I always thought no one wanted to hold my hand because I gnawed on my cuticles, biting until they bled when I was nervous or bored.  But there was a girl named Shannon who bit her nails down until they were gnarled up little strips.  And she always had boyfriends.  Even though she had a bad perm and claw bangs.  So I thought maybe it wasn't about her hands at all, it was because she was skinny and blonde.--Because according to my mother, "not too many boys will be interested in a girl that looks like you, and no one is going to be perfect so you should probably just find a man who won't hit you." --Shannon had a normal name, and laughed a lot.  She probably didn't spend as much time as I did sitting in a closet reading book after book.  Or recording her own radio shows.  Turns out not that many people are attracted to that, even as adults.
Much, much later I found myself in bed with someone I'd never expected.  He was the cocktail waitress at my regular watering hole.  I fucked him with my knee high combat boots on--though it was mostly missionary and with the lights out.  When it was all said and done, I hinted for him to leave.  But I'm a gentleman so I at least walked him to his car. There on the sidewalk as the sun came up he asked me for my phone number, said he wanted to spend real time with me, that I was a cool girl. And I, completely naked except for the boots and a pillow to cover my lady business, refused.  I told him he didn't have to do that--to pretend he was interested when we'd already fucked.  He protested.  And I never really thought that much about it as he continued bringing me cocktails.  Until I started taking stock in my thirties.   And I realized that I could've given that kid a chance.  And a lot of other kids really.
I'm not sure how last Wednesday's nausea and circulatory shock translates into any of this. Why I wanted to drink myself to death this weekend.  (Spoiler alert:  I didn't.  I mean I drank until I couldn't feel my tongue, but I didn't die.)  Why the only love letter I've ever written was to say goodbye.  It's just train of thought maybe-word vomit.  A breaking the silence. An exhale?   Too Angela Bassett...
Grieving. End of Days.

"The false trumpet concealing madness will cause Byzantium to change its laws."