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Deer legs

Well, I took that bath. I sat and smoked and finished reading Bunny Bunny, a book about Gilda Radner that one of the women at work loaned to me. Reading about Gilda Radner is never going to cheer me up. I always know how the story ends, and it doesn't end well.

My Mother is getting me a birthday present. I already know what it is -- the very same thing she got for my Aunt Bunny, only in black. I'm sure she's mainly doing it because she knows I've been sad lately, but man ... I can't tell you when the last time she gave me a birthday present was. I said something about that in the car ride back on Friday night, and my Father snapped "we give you money!" and it just made me cry even more. I've been crying a lot lately. It's no surprise.

Right now I can hear the neighbors on the stairs again, being drunk, being happy. I know I need to find my own two feet again, and figure out how to stand on them, but it seems I have a terminal case of deer legs. Like a baby deer, trying to walk, I'm not so sure that my legs know how to support me.

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