“I had a mentally ill vacation last year in October. It’s fun to lose your marbles.”

"I don't care what you do, but save a tiny bit of room for me just in case it all ends like I expect it to," is what he had texted me last night, like I hadn't been saving that space since the late 90s, since before I was even married.  The mental health day began with an unhealthy serving of overanalyzation and coffee from my seriously fucked up french press.  Under the shadow of my contemplative mood, the renegade grinds felt like a metaphor for something.

Bullshit, probably.

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