When life was carefree

Ha. No, it never was. But, the day that this picture was taken was a rather lovely day. I wish I was then, because today I lost my keys, and tracked them the fuck down in the middle of the snow/gravel/slush-covered sidewalk. Don't get me wrong. I am very happy I found them. But back when this picture was taken, I'd never thought I'd entertain thoughts of St. Zita, the patron saint of lost keys.

It's not so much that I don't want to think about St. Zita, but that in searching a list of patronages, I found that:
Clotilde (what a fucking name)
Louise de Marillac
Matilda
and
Monica

are the patron saints of disappointing children.

THIS EXEMPLIFIES EVERYTHING THAT IS WRONG WITH THE WORLD AND MAKES ME HATE PEOPLE. herregud.

please, let me go back to the day from the picture above, where sour-ass perverts and biontches hadn't corrupted my brain with the knowledge that there are patron saints of "disappointing children."

Usch, usch, usch.

A broken heart feels like a heart on a grill. When you have a broken heart from love, the flames are really high and crazy and the heart gets burnt to a crisp relatively fast, and then it becomes a lump of hardened carbon which eventually turns into ash. The process is a lot slower when you are broken-hearted over a diminished friendship. There are no flames, just coals. The heart is grilled slower, but more thoroughly. The change to ash may never come - and within the change to ash resides catharsis. Ash can be blown away in the wind. So, since the heart never gets turned to ash, in the case of a broken friendship heart, it instead just stays in its hardened, slow-cooked state forever. Until it slowly rots and breaks down.

Friend, I miss you. My heart aches for you, as it's roasted over the coals of what's come between us.