I miss my grandmother and it’s easy to go on with life during the day. It’s not easy at 5:00am.
I sometimes wonder if my vices will get the best of me. If i’ll die with a glass in my hand and a bottle at my feet.
I worry that I’ll never have children. That I can’t have children. That I’ll never stand in a hospital room looking at my child that’s a perfect mix between me and his mother.
I worry that I’m but the writer I believe I am. That I haven’t put any books out in 4 years because I believe they’ll flop.
I worry that I’m incapable of ever truly loving anyone. Worry that there’s something broke inside of me.