The Persistence of Memory

I am stuck on my back. The doctor said it's a pulled muscle, nothing more. Thankfully. And he gave me a bunch of meds. It turns out Vicodin is a nice little product.

Unfortunately, though, it hasn't knocked me out, and so I have a lot of time to THINK. Which is exactly what I don't want. I think about B, and how things could have been different. I have regrets. I wonder how he is doing. I wonder if this and if that and why why why. I'm so very tired of thinking about all of it, and every time I think I'm done crying about him, it turns out I'm not. I try not to talk to about it anymore, it's such an old, tedious topic. My friends have been infinitely patient, but if I were them at this point, every time B came up I'd want to rip out my fingernails with a pliers, I'd be so annoyed. I'm actually about that sick of hearing myself talk about it as well.

It might be an English Patient afternoon. It's my favorite movie, and when I am sad, I watch it for catharsis. I've seen it so many times that when I am not in the mood to watch the whole three hours, I skip directly to my trigger points.

I love Ralph Feinnes in that movie. If you could combine him with Indiana Jones and dress him in a nice suit and give him a corporate job that he would miraculously love, this would be the man I would worship endlessly. I told a friend that I realized that of course it'd be unrealistic to think that he would be happy being a suit, and she rolled her eyes and said, "Right. That's the unrealistic part."

If I could have an eternal sunshine of the spotless mind erase, I would.