I've chosen a happy life

Hunter S. Thompson shot himself? Shot himself. That book he wrote, you know, about Las Vegas, was painful(Brilliant). I hope he's alright now, but I fear he might not be. I always wish the best for the brilliant. I gather that it must be a torment, though, to have such a vision of the traumatized individuals of the world that it permeates generations. People learn things when they read such books, you know; I know. I did. Have. Do. Will. I do learn. From reading. From listening, too, to poetry and lyrics and melodies.

The books I read fire bullets at me that are hollow-tipped with whatever-meaning-I-can-make. They tear me up and leave me changed with no system-restore. My heart feels heavy for the writers who turn on themselves with bullets of another sort, when the torment of vision makes their heart too heavy to bear.

My sister's divorce is done and she's leaving to Athens. I'm approaching my one year anniversary with Mike and I'm swapping beds with my sister.

I need a bigger one and she needs a smaller one.

How's that for reality? Sisters. Mama has to be supportive for both.

The real kicker is that we're realizing how much we have in common between marriage and divorce. The uncertainty. The gut feelings. The grace. The appalling selfishness. My sister and I have changed our relationship forever.

After a lifetime of her being five-years older and me having to live my life as an apology for ever having been born, we are now equals.

Mike asked me to read him stories from the Bible on Saturday afternoon. I read from Luke. He was putting together a model of a WWII era tank. I'm pretty sure we fell in love again.