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We buried Molly in my parents' backyard. It was awful, as these things always are. My Dad was mad at me and yelling, and yelling at my Mom, who was trying to be the peace maker, and all I wanted to do was smoke and break things (oh yeah ... 1 week and 4 hours ... can't believe I made it through a whole week). In the end, we ended up in the kitchen, my mother trying to get all the mud off of me before we went to see my Grandmother, my Dad insulting me, and me throwing (non-breakable) things (like paper towels, rubber gloves, and hard candies) at him every time he was a jerk.

Of course H.W.S.R.N. plans didn't happen (so what else is new?), but that was at least partially my decision -- truth be told, I was more than a little bit gunshy to see him on the eve of a disaster. The last time I did that was when my Uncle Tommy died, and things ended up getting worse rather than better. Call me superstitious, but I was afraid to see him.

And beyond that, I needed sleep anyway, and I got next to none the night before. I fell asleep and slept for one hour easily, but then no more. In the end, I took some of those happy pills I had left over from when I tore my Achilles Tendon ... knocked me right out and I just woke up a half an hour ago or so.

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