Category Archives: lack of sleep

Barely out of Tuesday…

 

Sometimes, I find a song that touches me in a pretty profound way.  There are days that I listen to it and think “this is a great song” and then, the same song on another day takes on a completely different meaning. Today on Facebook, Adam Duritz of Counting Crows posted up his song “Barely Out of Tuesday”.  This particular song is not new to diehard Crows fans.  It’s a song that never made it onto any of their albums which is a damn shame.  Yesterday, I was under an enormous amount of stress and seeing as it is about 4am right now…and I am barely out of tuesday myself, I thought I would share it. 

Relative to nothing I have said thus far, I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew this semester.  I am taking an algebra course, an intermediate algebra course.  I have managed to get through many years of college and test out of having to take math courses.  This time, I was not so lucky.  As a pre-requisite to getting into the Bachelor’s program I am looking to get into this fall, statistics is required.  I’m not concerned about that because statistics really have very little to do with actual numbers.  However, this algebra course is required to be able to get into the stats class.  So, my suave manipulations of the system will not get me out of this one this time.  I suppose the luck had to run out eventually.  I probably did myself a grave disservice by not taking the intermediate course directly after taking the “pre” and “elementary” courses that preceded it.  Now it is eight years post degree and I have very little recollection of the “order of operations” or “distributive properties”, “associative properties” or “inverse/reciprocal properties”.   I did a lot of research on “Rate My Professor” type websites before settling on this particular teacher.  I knew I was going to need my hand held on this one and by all accounts, she is just that type of professor.  She allows scientific calculators in class.  She allows you to do your homework over and over again online until you max out your score with a perfect grade.  She even allows you to bring a “crib sheet” with notes into her exams.  One page only, handwritten notes.  “You write small enough, you can probably fit everything I teach you onto your study guide,” as she calls it.  “Write too big though and too bad.  You lose.”  Okay.  Fair enough.  Actually, well beyond fair and with a six point font type of handwriting, I can really make this work in my favor. 

However, she did stress that you, the student, will only get out of the class what you put into it.  “Don’t bother to open a book until test day and your grade will reflect that,” she said. “Study for at least one hour every day and you will do just fine.”

By nature, I am a procrastinator.  I am also one of those really cocky students that truly believes she works best under pressure and at the last minute.  Math, I think, will be the end to this notion and probably the end to my perfect GPA as well.  On Thursday, after class, I told the Hotband that I am going to just “relax” for the night and give myself Friday off as well.  Since it’s a long weekend, I will have Saturday, Sunday and Monday to do homework. 

Best. Laid. Plans. 

I do nothing on Friday.  Nothing. Don’t even crack open a book to do some reading in Applied Ethics or my humanities course.  Why bother? I have this nice long three day weekend.  I have all the time in the world.  I have more than an ample window in which to get all my work done.  I have…

food poisoning. 

Friday night, my hubs ordered in from our favorite italian place.  Normally, I just have some pasta and meatballs.  This time I thought it would be nice to try their eggplant.  As I was eating it, I thought it tasted peculiar to me.  My husband tasted it.  He said it didn’t taste strange to him, so I just assumed it was me and continued to eat it.  Halfway through the dish, I decided that I really was not enjoying this meal at all.  It still tasted odd and a bit sour even.  About five hours later…I was vomiting my guts up.  At one point, I vomited so hard that the content of my bladder erupted.  Seeing as my face was occupying the bowl, I could barely swing my fat ass around in time to find the hole on which to set it upon.  My husband walks in to find me covered in puke from trying to twist around in time to pee in the bowl…and sitting in a puddle of my own urine.  I was shivering, felt like my body was ice cold while simultaneously sweating from every pore.  My husband helped me get up, clean myself up, change into fresh pajamas and sent me to bed.  Bed…where I proceeded to stay for the next 32 hours, completely obliterating Saturday as an option for homework and studying. 

I finally awoke on Sunday around 2pm, feeling like utter shit…like I had been hit by a bus.  I had a throbbing headache.  So, the hubs being the angel baby that he is, set me up in style.  A bunch of pillows, fresh t shirt and undies and some warm socks.  A nice cold glass of water on the nightstand.  Remote in my right hand, cellphone in my left.  My laptop plugged in so I could blog, facebook and tweet during the Jets game, the Golden Globes and of course, The Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I was in social networking heaven.  He also bought me a slew of gorgeous gourmet cupcakes for me to devour once I was feeling better.

Hello, lovers…nom nom nom.
 
Friday, Saturday, Sunday.  All gone.  No studying done.  Monday arrives.  I feel like ass, but able to get out of bed finally.  When I do, I am greeted by my son who apparently arrived at my house at some point over the weekend.  I was so sick, I scarcely knew he was there.  He was all like “Hey Mom, how are you feeling?  Good?  Great.  Remember you said you would dye my hair for me this weekend?  Remember?  Remember that?  Well, it’s Monday already and…and…and…”
 
“And you would like me to color your hair now.”
 
“Yeah.  Can you?”
 
“Yes.  What do you want done?”
 
“I want my hair blue.”
 
“Blue hair,” I reply.  “All of it blue or just certain spot blue or a blue streak?  What are we talking about here?”
 
“All of it.  Blue!”  
 
I sigh.  But, it is his hair. He is fifteen. If he wants to look like a smurf, who am I to stop that?  I schlep myself out of the house to do some errands I had thought could be done at any time over the weekend, you know, because it was a LONG weekend after all and I had all the time in the world, right?  So, I go to where my daughter works and buy some boobie car covers (also known as bras).  Hey, buy two get two free?  Bras in my size run about $40 a pop, so buying two to get two free is a deal that I would get out of bed for.  Then, of course, since Ross is right next door and they do their shoe/purse restocking on Mondays…well, I can’t let a perfectly good “get out of bed when you’re sick” errand run go to waste right?  Cute Jessica Simpson pumps.  Adorable Guess slingbacks.  Mine.  Productive.  Next.  Over to Office Depot because I need graph paper, a scientific calculator, some pencils and some folders.  All of this for my math class which equates to, in my mind, doing something productive in math for the weekend. There we go.  Guilt of doing nothing, alleviated with one quick trip to Office Depot.  Salvation in the form of a Texas Instrument calculator…oh, and the purchase of a really cute pink stapler.  Because, every princess should have a pink stapler on her desk, right?
 
Final stop? CVS.  After mulling over all the possibilities… we decided on a nice electric blue which, best case scenario, will look like deep blue highlights over his black/brown hair.  Worst case scenario?  The boy will look like Cookie Monster.  
 I know you have some cupcakes too, bitch! I saw them. Now where are they???
 
Well, long story made real short (I’ll make the long story longer in a separate blog post that includes pictures), I ended up stripping my sons hair of its natural color, leaving him with bright. orange. streaks.  all over his pretty, mop top of curls.  Yeah.  There’s a reason I never became a professional hair dresser.  He takes a look at it. He stares at it.  I assure him that when I add the blue, it will cover up all that bright, light orange and…
 
“I LOVE IT!  IT LOOKS SO AWESOME!!!!”
 
“Seriously,” I ask incredulously.
 
“Holy crap, it’s AWESOME,” he exclaims again.  “Forget the blue stuff.  I’m keeping it like this.”
 
“Nick, honey,” I say, “It looks like I dropped a bucket of Clorox on your head from a really high place or something.  It’s just a big…splat…all over your head.”
 
“Dude, it is SO cool.  Thank you, Mommy!”  He gives me a big hug and dashes out of the bathroom, presumably to jump right on Facebook and let the world know that he know looks like a damn tiger.
 
So, how does this all relate to my earlier complaint about not getting to do any of my math homework this entire weekend?  Well, simply…it doesn’t.  While I didn’t enjoy being sick and definitely did not enjoy the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied not being fully prepared for my algebra class this evening, the full out, painful belly laughs that I shared with my son and husband Monday night were entirely worth it.  
 
Here I now sit, a mere 4 hours and 40 minutes into Wednesday or, as the song says, barely out of tuesday.  And I think I am willing to forgive myself this for the lack of drive or effort in completing my schoolwork.  If nothing else, this past Monday night showed me what most of us have known all along.  Family first and foremost, always.  If it means getting one little goose egg for a grade due to lack of homework preparation, so be it.  The moments that I spend with the kid and the hubs made that zero worth while…
 
and if you do the math, Happy Family – Algebra Homework + Digital Camera = Lifetime Memories.
 
I think I made the grade.   
 
 

Long time gone…

I haven’t written in here since May. I said I was going to take June, July and August away from writing. I’ve missed it and while I have had a lot to say, the words were escaping me. It seems my inner voice has been a bit battered as of late. I wanted to write on September 11th, the way I always do. I couldn’t. I couldn’t even bring myself to honor the people lost on that day because I have been utterly swallowed by my depression lately.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had reasons to laugh in the past three months. Lots of reasons. There were a lot of fantastic things that happened over the summer. There were also horrible things, like my trip to Israel. There was pain, rejection, loss of connection and the annual celebration of the day I was torn via C-section from Esther’s pristine uterus.

44 years old. Happy birthday to me. Another day closer to death. The way I figure it, I am probably halfway to dead by now. If the average woman lives until 88 years of age, I am dangling on the halfway point this year. I did a quick assessment to see if I am anywhere near where I wanted to be at this age. The answer was a resounding…perhaps.

I’m a grandmother to two beautiful babies. I am married to the most amazing man to roam the earth since Christ himself…if you believe in that shit. My children are thriving in their lives. My daughter is happily married and a fantastic mother to those to babies I mentioned. My son just started his first year of high school at a brand new school and loves it. I am on decent terms with Esther. My dad is well, not healthy, but well enough for now. So those things are amazing and incredible and perfect.

But where am I? I’m not really any where. I am clean of my drug addiction for well over a year now. I gave up my nursing license and now, in retrospect, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I realized how miserable nursing made me and how it contributed to my depression. Whoever tells you that nurses get to help and heal patients, well, they obviously never worked in long term care. You don’t get to do any of those things. You get to shove pills into their incoherent slack-jawed mouths and then onto the next. There is no comfort. There is no care. There is no time to sit at a bedside holding a hand. All that bullshit you see on soap operas…it’s a fantasy. A fairytale that surrounds the beautiful myth of the nurse. At least it is in that setting.

So, back to school I went. Off to get my degree in Social Work. I decided I want to go for my Masters in Social Work and Human Services. Why? Because I need to hold that hand. I need to bring that comfort. I need to smile into pained and troubled faces. It does them good. Selfishly, it does me good. I decided that I am going to be an interventionist and work with addicts. Does it scare me? Definitely. I am scared shit to be around those who are using actively again…but now that I have been there and by the blessing of my Higher Power, found my way back…I feel this is the path I am destined to walk.

I love being in school because it is something I am good at. I am an “A” student, a perfect 4.0 GPA. The professors love me, they always embrace the returning adult students more than the new, fresh out of high school kids. They know we care a lot more and are a bit more hard pressed for time. There is no room for us to fail. We don’t have the opportunity to fail because we don’t have the time. The money. The lack of desire. Our grown up hearts are on fire to do something, anything relevant with the time we have left, however much that might be.

The way I figure it, I will walk out with my degree in 2 more years from now. 46 years old. Still enough time to begin a life, still enough time to put in about 30 years worth of employment.

I ain’t quite dead yet.

But in the interim, I am suffering. I have stopped taking all my psych meds. I just don’t want anything to do with them any more. And, it has its good moments and bad ones. I don’t feel fucked in the head any more. I have my memory back. My sense of humor has returned and it is whip cracking sharp the way it used to be. On the flip side, I cry at the drop of a hat. I fall into depressions very easily. And, my old friend insomnia has returned to fight me nightly. And while the bottles of Cymbalta, Lamictal, Buspar, Xanax, Geodon, Ativan, Klonopin and Trazodone all look tempting…I mainly find myself having staring contests with them. They dare me to open them and to indulge. And the temptation is always there. But, I don’t. I could. Nothing wrong with taking one now and again when needed, but I feel like one will be death of me. Just one pill will open up a can of worms for me. I can’t revisit the days of bottle dependency.

I keep them all over the house. Some on my desk. A few in my purse. More on my bedroom dresser. They stare at me and say, c’mon CP, let us take the edge off. And me, I scoff and say “no, let me empower myself, dammit”. “But you have a disease,” they retort. “You need us.” And that may very well be, but I want to try to go this alone. I want to feel like myself at every possible moment I can, however fleeting it might be. For those few hours, life is so perfect.

Then, the depression comes back, wraps me up in its itchy wool blanket and says, “No, no Dear. You don’t get to make the decisions around here. We do. Me…me and all your pills. Come down the rabbit hole, CP. It’s not that long of a drop.”

But it is. I’ve taken the trip before. For the five minutes I jump into the deep end, it requires a lot of swimming to get out of the murky waters again and I simply don’t have the energy to do it over and over again.

I’ll probably be writing more frequently now, but not daily. Just when I need to…like in the beginning. And tonight, I needed this to be here, like an old friend with open arms letting me fall into them and just cry. Let it all out, rubbing my hair til I fall mercifully asleep.

I need this.

Well, that took awhile…didn’t it?

I finally snapped out of last weeks despair sometime this week. It coincided with Valentine’s Day for the most part. My hotband took me out to the beach hideaway that we love so much. We went for a very romantic (read: EXPENSIVE) dinner at another little hole in the wall that we don’t share with others. Then, we went back to the hotel and had absolutely incredible sex. No. Really. Incredible. I did something for him that I had not done in a very long time.

I played “dress up” for him. Yeah. Trashy lingerie. Big heels. Red lipstick.

The works.

Since being on my medications for bipolar disorder, it is not often that I feel creative anymore. Don’t get me wrong. Feeling sexy is a permanent condition for me. I have really good self-esteem and have always been proud of my body, no matter how big or small it has gotten over the years. However, the medications, while sparing my overly active libido, have completely taken away my desire to have fun with my sex life like we used to.

Ah, I remember the days of giving my husband lap dances in funky little outfits. Yep yep. The products of manic episodes. Alas, those manic episodes, while they still exist to a certain degree, no longer possess the punch of a Napalm bomb quite the way they used to. Plus, we’re together 10 years. There are only so many tricks you can pull out of your hat before you retire the magician, you know what I mean?

Anyway, after V-Day, he spent 9 wonderful days at home as the airports he usually flies out of were snowbound. I had this magnificent creature 24 hours a day for 9 days straight. What I have discovered is that he is a far better medication than anything I take out of a little brown bottle on a nightly basis. He’s fun. Even when he isn’t being funny…he is still fun to be around. He makes me laugh effortlessly. Even when I am being pissy and moody, he still manages to elicit laughter from me.

But, because he makes me feel so good…I tend to ignore my medications. I figure, I’m feeling pretty good. I don’t need them right now. So, I don’t take them. Three days will go by. Then, I will take one med here, another med there…not taking them steadily as I should and all of a sudden…

Thud. Depression.

I am trying to manage my brain. Really I am. I try to do the right things, but there is this little bit of defiance in my personality that doesn’t quite let me manage my care the way I should. Fuck the medicine. I WANT to be manic sometimes! I want the energy to clean my house, go shopping, make some dinner…LIVE a little.

It’s really hard having bipolar disorder. Really hard. Especially when you have the variety that I do, which is rapid cycling bpd. It’s hard to keep up with yourself. Right now, it’s nearly 4 am. I haven’t been to sleep. I’ve been up reading stories on serial killers all night. I am positively obsessed with serial killers. This is not a good obsession for someone with a mental disorder.

People like me should obsess over kittens or little fluffy things. Sparkly toys. Shiny things. Not mass murderers.

So, okay. I’m back on the game again, though not sleeping. But at least I am not in that deep, horrible funk I was in last week. Sometimes, I go back and read my posts and think…who the hell wrote that??

I will look at this one next week and wonder the same exact thing.

I have a really good post looming in the back of my brain. I wanted to post it yesterday, because the timing would have been great, but alas, my fingers and brain would not cooperate. But it is a good story that needs to be told.

In the meantime, a bowl of froot loops is in order.

81 days sober…and a now, a new challenge!

I am listing the things that I need to stop doing now that I am sober. Let me go have a cigarette first, and then, I shall explain. Please hold for a moment.

(Insert cheesy muzak here)

Okay. Back. Now, here’s the thing…

I need to stop:
Smoking.
Biting my nails.
Eating like a pig.
Keeping vampire hours.

Now, to think I can stop all of these, while maintaining my sobriety, is just sheer madness. I can’t do it all. So, I decided to analyze each of these and see which one I can possibly do right now.

SMOKING: I started to smoke February of last year. It happened when some cunt broke into my car, stole my Chanel bag and all my credit cards along with it. Sadly for said cunt, my cards were maxxed out, so all she was able to buy was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Asshole. The police found my bag in a swamp behind a movie theater. It was not salvagable, so I had to trash a $500 bag. This did not please the princess at all. Anyway, for some reason, I felt the need to smoke a cigarette. First One Ever in 41 years of my life. I’ve been saying I will stop for the past year. My son doesn’t know I smoke because I go through great lengths to make sure not to do it around him. I go into my bathroom, topless, so my shirt doesn’t smell like smoke. I dangle out the window practically. Then, I spray my hair with hairspray, brush my teeth, douse myself in perfume (cheap stuff, I don’t use my good stuff for this) and then, put my shirt back on. Ridiculous. I don’t even enjoy smoking. I just need something to do with my hands…and there are only so many handjobs my hotband can endure before he feels like his dick is going to fall off. So, quitting smoking is definately something I want to do.

BITING MY NAILS: I have been a nail biter since birth. I started getting acrylics done when I was 15 years old and have been addicted to getting them done ever since. This means that my nailbeds are positively destroyed (but damn, do my hands look gorgeous with a new set of frenches on them). So, I stopped getting the acrylics done a couple of months ago (thank you, drug addicted CP for not wanting to get out of bed to have them done), but I went right back to biting them again. So, I have resorted to using press on nails. That way, the drilling of the acrylics don’t destroy my fingernails…and I can’t get to them to bite them. It’s not the ideal way to stop biting…but, it is working for now. The problem is they look so…*ugh* fake. But, it’s better than my ragged cuticles that I tear up and leave all bloody and nasty.

EATING LIKE A PIG: This is a side effect of getting sober. I have an appetite again. And man, am I making up for lost time! I don’t eat to satiate hunger. It’s more to keep my hands busy (see “smoking”/”handjobs”). Now, I have the opposite problem of most women. Most women, even the thinnest women, think they look fat. Me? I know I’m fat…and I’ve always embraced that. And, I am also one of those women who, no matter how fat she gets, still manages to think she is the hottest girl in the room. I have body dysmorphic disorder…but in the OPPOSITE of what it should be. I’m a fat girl who thinks she’s thin. *LOL* The problem is, I am so damn pretty that I feel it makes up for the excess 20 pounds (okay, 30). Here’s a recent pic of me at my high school reunion:

That’s me in the white floral dress (Yves Saint Laurent never looked better, I might add) See the girl in the black dress in front of me? Yeah. Size 2. Fuck her. *LOL* The girl next to me? The red head? Yeah. Size 12. Fuck her too. Me? A divine size somewhere between a 16 and an 18 depending on whether I am wearing the good stuff or a cheap knockoff. *gasp…yes, the princess does do knockoffs now and then. sh. our secret.) That’s the issue. I really don’t feel like I look bad. If I looked like shit, I might be more apt to lose some weight. *shrugs* This one might be a challenge. (See the hotband behind me? How cute is he??? And, in this pic is the guy I lost my virginity to back in junior high…but I’ll never tell which one…mwahahahaha).

Here’s another pic of me…just because I am that cute that I should be shared. I am on the right of Abby, my kindergarten best friend (middle) and another friend of 28 years (like you can’t tell which one is me, right?):

Yeah. Weight loss is probably not on the table for me right now.

KEEPING VAMPIRE HOURS: For those of you that have known me since I started this blog in…Jesus, has it been four years already? Anyway, since the beginning…I keep the most unholy of hours. Right now, it is 5:30 am. I am blogging, playing Vampire Wars on Facebook, chatting with a friend, listening to music, smoking a cigarette, eating some cantaloupe and basically just doing my thing while the rest of the house is sound asleep. I do this for days straight, sometimes up to 4 days without sleep and then WHAM…crash. I sleep for about 6 hours and then I’m ready to do it all over again. Don’t suggest sleeping pills because 1) They go against my sobriety issues and 2) They don’t work on me anyway. I have tried to fuck my husband until I died of exhaustion. Sadly, he gets exhausted WAAAAAAAY before I do…and having sex with him is like eating a bag of Lays…can’t eat just one. So, while he is “recovering”, I am just winding up for round FIVE. Sex is too much of an adrenaline rush for me to knock me out. I read…but I don’t get bored. I can finish a full novel in one night. I try to watch old movies that I have seen a gazillion times thinking it will bore me, but I end up seeing things that I never noticed before and it makes it interesting for me all over again. For example, did you know that there is a Starbucks Coffee Cup in EVERY scene in Fight Club? Yep. Go watch it. (It’s truly the best movie ever made, so watch it anyway). I have been suffering (read:living) with insomnia since I am a little kid. My mom used to put me to bed at midnight, when the Tonight Show was on. She’d fall asleep…and I’d crawl out of bed and sit on her floor and watch it til they did the National Anthem at 4am. (Yes, they used to do that…WAY back in the days before internet and cable). So, these are the hours I am accustomed to keeping.

Now, out of all of these vices…the one I think I am having the easiest time with is the nail biting. However, that is also the one I am least concerned about. No pay off with that one. I know me…and I will eventually cave and get them done professionally again. Eating like a pig? Maybe…MAYBE I can tone it down. I have a $3,000 treadmill on my back porch. It’s the place I hang my throw rugs over when I wash them. A very expensive clothesline. Smoking? Yeah, I think I can see giving that one up…but the after dinner/after sex cigs are going to be really rough. And the vampire hours? That’s 42 years of undoing. I don’t know about that one.

So, I have 81 days under my belt of sobriety. Yay for me and all that shit…but, should I really pick another vice to start separating from right now?

Tell you what. Let me go do my nails, smoke a cigarette, eat a doughnut…and I’ll get back to you tomorrow at 5am with my decision.

This past weekend…

was my High School reunion. Well, not really high school. Actually, it was my Junior High School reunion. I used to live in Queens, New York. I grew up there. The place is in my blood and part of everything I am. I had all my “firsts” in Queens. One summer, I went to sleepaway camp, like I always did, with all my friends from Queens. It was, as usual, a blast. Great summer, moreso because I got to be a junior counselor that year.

On the last day of camp, I hugged all my friends goodbye and told them I would see them at school in a couple of weeks. My parents always took us on some stupid vacation at the end of camp. I was all prepped for it. So, with my brother and I packed up in the car…we began on our journey to wherever it was we were going. I saw us pass the exit for Queens as we were driving along the Long Island Expressway.

“Where are we going,” I asked.

“You’ll see,” Esther chirped.

We drove on for what felt like HOURS. We finally pulled up in front of this enormous brown house. Tons of trees and foliage.

I hated it immediately.

“Welcome home,” my mother said.

EXCUSE ME????

“What do you mean ‘welcome home’, I asked. “This isn’t HOME!” Now, I’m panicking.

“We just bought this house,” my stepfather said. “isn’t it great?”

Great? I don’t think so.

I ran away from home THAT weekend, right back into Queens, sobbing into the arms of my friends. I stayed at several different houses throughout the week of any friend who would have me. I missed the first week of school in Long Island. I didn’t care. There was no way I was going back there. No. Freaking. Way.

Well, with police intervention, I was returned to my parents house. I started school in Long Island, but never fit in there. Sure, I made a couple of friends, but my heart was always deeply embedded in Queens. I went back there every weekend that I could. I had friends from Queens come out to this mansion I was living in. They started calling me a “richie”, which was someone who had money. We didn’t have money…but the house I lived in sure as hell looked like we did.

Eventually, those ties tapered off…

Years later, my kindergarten friend, Abby, tracked me down on Classmates.com. We picked up right where we had left off some 20 years earlier. Then, along came Facebook, getting me deeper in contact with all my friends from Queens. We have been laughing and talking online for months. All of this leading up to my reunion this past weekend.

I haven’t seen these people in 28 years…since I was torn away from them, kicking and screaming all the while.

It was bizarre to see most of them. Everyone aged, sure. The men got bald, the women got chunky and had lines on their beautiful faces…but for the most part, no personalities had changed. We meshed right back into our old fun and games like no time passed at all. The reunion was a blast. So much laughing, talking and drinking going on (not me though…I stayed sober). We had an “after party” at a local restaurant that we stayed at until 5am.

Now that it’s over, I wish it never ended. I got back on a plane to Florida in tears, the same way I left them 28 years ago. I hope I don’t have to wait another 28 years before I see these people again. It would break my heart. These are my true friends. I couldn’t believe the fond memories they had of me during certain times of their lives. It was great to reminisce about the old days. All we did was laugh and laugh to the point where we couldn’t breathe any longer.

It was simply and without question, the most amazing time of my life.