I'm at a place called Vertigo.
It's everything I wish I didn't know.
Except you give me something
I can feel.
The flight back to
Lest you, dear reader, think I've come completely unhinged, just know that what you've just read is the worst of my thoughts. My grief is present in a lack of patience and a profound fear of any more loss. I want a vacation from drama, and I want it now. I want a Sazerac and a thick steak and a Caesar salad. I want to smoke the cigar I bought to honor my father. I want to hang out with friends and talk religion and politics and ogle hot men. I want to wear my new shirt -- the silk and cotton shirt the color of my father's eyes that feels better on me than any piece of clothing I've ever worn -- and go to Cashion's with the DP. I want to fly a model airplane again. I want to be observant during Lent in a way that honours my father and to know that I will celebrate the Tridium at Holy Trinity, repeating a liturgy that has in part been observed for four thousand years. I want to know first hand that my father wasn't pulling my leg when he said Rio de Janiero is more beautiful than