My best friend died Monday. She was 31. I'm drowning in it. I'm not OK. I don't give a fuck whose plan it was. I don't care about finding the good in the damn grief. I don't know who I am without her. I don't understand the world without her. I feel nothing but heaviness. Weight. Confusion. My head is fuzzy, my heart is beyond broken. It is simply unbelievable that I can't pick up the phone and hear her voice on the other end. Unconditional love is a rare thing. For twenty years, since we were idiot kids, we've been friends. She's been a part of my every damn day. What the fuck? What the fuck do I do? Say? I don't know what the fuck to DO. I don't want to do anything. Her husband and I are walking around like zombies while everyone around us scrambles to make decisions about STUPID CRAP. I don't care what fucking container her damn ashes are in. I don't give a fuck. She doesn't give a fucking fuck. Clearly, I'm melting down. I don't even know that this is the place to talk about it, but I don't know when (if) I'll be able to blog here again. She read my blog. In London, in Ireland, wherever the fuck she lived. You don't care, I know, I just can't seem to stop babbling, even in my own head. I'm angry. Today, yesterday, probably for a while. I'm fucking angry.