Hello, Russia.

I wasn't going to post today, and I really probably shouldn't, but this blog is a representation of me, and as long as I am aware of the possible consequence of my words, I can post whatever I please.

I should have left the city forty minutes ago but I find my self sitting in Skippper's sweater, slowly starting to breath again. You see, I don't cry often, and when, it's usually more of a whimper then gasping for breath kind of cry. But every now and then, about twice a year, it happens. I cry, I gasp for air, my tears drip on to my shirt, I hurt and then afterwards I feel great. Maybe not great, but definitely better. It feels like a fresh start, that now that things got to their lowest point, that I heard the things I feared the most, everything fell apart, there is now nowhere else to go but up. It's the realization that I'm going to be fine. That my heart will not be the first in history to be broken, and that time and time again I get through the disappointment and hurt just fine and continue to still be loved by the people who know me best. For as shitty as I felt a short while ago, I feel clean and good, and know that I am going to be ok. Love can't feel that good without having the possibility to make you snot-cry all over yourself before the weekend trip you have been looking so forward to.

As the great Lady Chablly once said, "Two tears in a bucket, Mother fuck it."

Not everyone in the world is meant for each other, that I can handle, but I have to be honest, I was pretty damn sure about this one.