And how the policeman who ran the test didn’t even look weird or have a funny name, which felt like a gyp to me.
I remember when I was just about to say good-bye to my aunt Helen, I started crying.
It was a real kind of crying, too. Not the panicky type, which I do a lot.
And I made Aunt Helen a promise to only cry about important things
because I would hate to think that crying as much as I do would make crying for Aunt Helen less than it is.
Then, I said good-bye, and I drove home. I read the book again that night because I knew that if I didn’t, I would probably start crying again.
The panicky type, I mean. I read until I was completely exhausted and had to go to sleep.
In the morning, I finished the book and then started immediately reading it again.
Anything to not feel like crying. Because I made the promise to Aunt Helen.
And because I don’t want to start thinking again. Not like I have this last week.
I can’t think again. Not ever again. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt like that.
That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist.
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