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41 days

It has been 41 days now. How time passes by, in the twinkling of a star.

People see me today, full of compassion and concern. They ask me, are you ok? And they look at me with their sad puppy-dog eyes, rubbing my arm. And what am I to say? I should tell them the truth. No, I’m not ok, damnit. I look ok, but I’m not. I am hurting deep inside. My heart is broken. I feel like my life has been ravaged. I have had shit thrown into my face. My hero has died. The reason for my existence is gone. I’m a complete mess, you idiots. I am a big, fat, fucking mess. You think it’s easy getting over this? You’ll never know until it happens to you. You’ll never know because you aren’t me. You didn’t worship him the way I did. He was my everything. You know. And my everything is gone. You make me want to cry when you ask me if I’m ok.

But I clam up and pretend to smile, and I say the right thing, Oh, I’m fine. We’re doing ok, coping and all that. Sure I miss him lots, but life goes on, right?

Well, guess what?

Guess I’m also a big, fat, fucking liar. I’ve been lying to everyone around me.

Of course I’m not ok. What do you think?

Why am I so angry today? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

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