Do not tell me that you offer rides back from NYC on Saturday evenings if you are not actually going to provide them.
Homemade fudge is delicious but I feel sinful eating it and not in any way that makes me feel good.
I will never remedy the sadness that absorbs my entire body every time I see or hear from him. I feel blue in my toes and my ears and my lungs and my shoulders and my hands and all the places in between. Time refuses to move faster and in its slow-passing state, I seem unable to recover from the hurt he inevitably had to cause.
I already miss home. I miss my family more. We began decorating the house for Christmas last night and all I want now is to be there with them, humming along to overplayed holiday songs and stringing garland around the banister in the hallway.
Nineteen days and then I am free.