I count my losses, hands outstretched, folding fingers down one at a time. My father. My mother. Older younger brother. Younger younger brother. Best friend. Alleged best friend. Aunt. I count my chickens as they hatch into dust.
I rationalize: they were never worth having. I never really had them to begin with, and I never would have kept them. In the end everybody dies anyway so really this is just a shortcut to the inevitable.
I have sustained myself longer on less than this.
I'm 33 now.
It's been a long year.
I'm so fucking lonely.