Finally, some gut-busting restorative laughter.

Thank you, David Foster Wallace. You saved me. Reading aloud (and again) your cruise ship essay that decided my future as an unemployed writer/blogger allows me to employ inflections and seriocomic cadence your writing inspires. I’m rewarded with spontaneous snorts and deep chuckling that upon re-reading what made me chuckle only serves to upgrade it to full-on head back, open mouth laughter (and that prurient-sounding sighing from aerobic output mixed with more chuckling as I re-re-read what started this whole glorious expression of, evidence that I AM STILL HERE).

Under a thickening fog of depression, the girl I worked so hard to release from the rubble of the past remains intact. Some cuts and bruises to be sure, but strong enough to fight the blank stare of indifference severe depression delivers (triggered by the first junkie accusation and fortified by the second).

Oh, how I wish I could tell him how much he means to me.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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