The weekend was hell. I thought I had enough for it, $500. I should have known better. That was gone in two days. I'm such a fucking idiot. The third day was very painful, that was Easter. I cried a lot. TV was harsh, everything bright and big and emotional. Rapes and murders. My dad rang me, I spoke to my little brother on the phone. I was sobbing then, trying to get the words out, pretending I wasn't. We weren't even talking about anything special, it was just the distance between us. The years, the countries, the realities. Dad was asking when I'd buy a house, I couldn't tell him I had 62 cents and am drowning in bills. I have to start living for me. Being real. Wake up. Face the sadness and walk through it. Ignore why I'm depressed. Try to forget my dead friends. And most of all, forget the cure.