It was an unpleasant phone call, not one that we should have been having three weeks before he was leaving for half a year, and one day before coming up to Davis to stay for the rest of the week.

I've reached a new low, hiding in J's closet so that R wouldn't hear me cry.  But then again, even if I was more open about my raw displays of emotion, I don't think she would have noticed anyway--she's far too absorbed in her own trivialities to pay any attention to mine, much to my relief. 

It's a bit strange to be sitting on the toilet seat with your head pressed against the wall, wearing a mud mask that's dried your face into a perpetual expression of misery.

The burning sensation that indicates deep cleaning is somewhat of a comfort. 

However, I do realize that revitalizing your skin in such a way that exacerbates the despondency of what you're feeling during these melancholy moments isn't one of the best things to do, especially when someone else may want to use the bathroom that you've so selfishly holed yourself up in for the past half hour going cross-eyed staring at your feet. 

It happens to the best of us.