Friday, February 11, 2011

I made it through February 10th.

February 10th was my father's birthday.  He would be, let's see, 1, 2, 3, 4, 56 years old.  Not so old.  A few days ago, the pangs of what can only be described as the devil's fingernails coming up to scratch my back while I slept, started to find their way into the recesses of my thoughts, and emotions, and I didn't know. Why that is.  And then I did.  And now, another birthday has come and gone.  If there's a reason for staying sober out there, then this is one of them, even though it is exceedingly difficult on a day like that.  Probably the most.  I'll let Chopin tell you the rest:

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