We were wrong

I hate crying. I avoid it at all costs. Which usually results in crying harder than necessary and winding up with a killer headache. Unfortunately, yesterday was a day that demanded crying. That hard, hiccough-y, gasping, snotty crying. As I was driving. And when I came home to excise my demons, my computer wouldn't work and the upstairs of my house was overflowing with couples. So I left again, called aa, and showed up at his apartment looking like Hell's second cousin.

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I dreamed him alive last night. . . well, not last night, but recently. I dream that I'm in the classroom where we held the second FAD and I'm looking over and I'm surprised to see him, but all I can focus on are his face, which is bearded, and his ankles and his hand reaching down to his ankle. And I realize (in my dream) that he didn't die. He just hurt his ankle and the story got blown out of proportion. The dream ends there, usually because I'm so excited and wanting to get out of the classroom to find april and tell them we were wrong. We were wrong. We were wrong.