spent.

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Even now I frown at myself, thinking that I really shouldn't be so deeply affected by this. After all, one of the earliest memories I have of my uncle is him scolding me for being too noisy at my own birthday party, telling my mother she should be a better parent and to spank me more often. We were never close. Not at all. Yet now I've even developed a guilt complex that refuses to let me do anything fun. I flaked out on two parties tonight, and the Waikiki sidewalks packed with garishly dressed revelers barely registered during the drive home. Derek and I are supposed to see "Romeo and Juliet" tomorrow, but I have this nagging suspicion I won't feel like it. How long does this kind of funk last? Long, long sigh. I don't even know why I wrote all this. Perhaps I was hoping that at the end of it all, I'd find a neatly wrapped moral, or lesson, or poignant closure to the story. Some reason to explain where I've been, mentally, all week. Some reason for my uncle's death, even. One that would finally rinse away whatever it is that seems to have been clinging to me ever since. Instead I'm just sitting here. Same chair, different month... and no punch-line to be found. Yet tonight, maybe I'll be able to sleep through to morning again.