It's the early morning of my birthday...yay and all that. Yay my ass...what a bullshit thing it is to be 22. I'm glad that I'm healthy, this is true, but jesus, there aren't any milestones that are good left, are there? I reckon that 22 is the first year in which you feel like there is no birthday left that makes you really happy, just aged (with accent on the e). I'm a whiney person, aren't I? This is the problem when I try to really be self-absorbed - I feel guilty. Twenty two! Hell! I hope for many more years. I want to be alive and I love it, really.

I'd just really like to be talking to Lazzara about being 22 now, and it's really hard that I can't. I keep thinking about that...there's a lot that I'd like to talk to him about, yet I can't. It was his birthday a little less than two weeks ago, and I just think about us...we used to have birthdays so close together...and now he's gone. Man, if you could feel like I feel right now...it's awful. I just think about all the poor people that I knew. I don't know all of their birthdays, admittedly, but I know a lot. Tom Sullivan is the solstice of the summer, Matt is the 2nd of April because he was an April fools joke, not being born on the first and all. (prolonged pause)

Mike was May fifth...cinqo de mayo and all, born in Canada to American parents on the Mexican holiday, the true north american boy. haha. Isn't life perishable? Aren't memories all that we have, really? Well, I suppose that we have photographs and writing (in some lovely cases). I guess I'll dwell forever on this stuff when it's late and I'm alone. I'm full of doubt - I constantly mention here how 'i shouldn't be revealing myself' and all that jazz...I shouldn't be letting my vulnerability out on such a public forum. Then I allude toward the therapudic. Et cetera.

I keep some photographs of Lazzara right here by my computer...and he looks so goddamned alive. It's incredible.