It's just that, you know, dead brother.
Burying William meant going back to the familial graveyard, thus reliving the times I lost all the other people I love who are also buried there, which is just gut-punchingly miserable, but of course I'm Episcopalian and repressed (so...basically Episcopalian) so it's not like I can do that thing...what's it called? I saw it on TV once...right, show emotion.
|Replace Patrick with a pudgy gay Latino boy and you've got my future life|
Aside from the whole Being a Rock for the Family role, which I was born to play (see also: Mame Dennis, which would be a lot more fun because of the bitchin' tulle bedjackets) grief is an intimate emotion, and I'm not comfortable putting that sort of intimacy on display.
Instead I waited until I got home, sent HLB on some errand (I think to find skim milk. I swear, it's like searching for the golden fleece here. You can get a pinata full of prescription drugs for like, thirty pesos, but locating skim milk requires a full-on Indiana Jones expedition, minus the Nazis...usually) and then hid under the blankets with a flashlight and a packet of really disgusting Skittles a friend gave me just in case I accidentally started to like Skittles (nope) and Felt All The Feelings in the privacy of my own leaky Mexican cottage...like a lady.
So thanks for your patience, and I'll be back in the regular saddle again soon. Also, if anyone can think of something to do with a depression-sized bag of "darkside" Skittles, you just let me know.