Why does life keep moving? My dad died so you can stop going to your jobs. Stop being happy. Stop functioning. That's what I've done. Just sit round and feel bad. It's a delicate dance. You shy away from things you know will remind you. That Calvin and Hobbes book-he'd bought me every one-on the shelf...just don't look at it. Keep your head up, eyes ahead, back straight.  The guy in the hospital bed on television is not your father...it's an actor. The smells that invade your sense suddenly-hospital smells-are not real. Passing by soup in the grocery store shouldn't make you sick-it's all he could eat in the weeks before his death-and you will enjoy soup again. What I know is real and what seems real is very much blurred. Every morning I wake up and think he is here, waiting for me to wake up. Things to do kiddo! That's what he'd say. I know there are things to do. But if I sit here long enough and close my eyes and listen to his music full blast, he's here with me. And he's still saying there are things to do.
      Shit.    
            I'm going to look for a job.
                  Get motivated.
                               Huzzah!