For me, February is not a month of love. 
It is, instead, a month of death. And a month of remembering the dead. 

Of course, there have only been vastly significant deaths in my life to date: my grandfather and my dog. 
This, I realize, is retarded. People have suffered immeasurably greater amounts than I, so my hurts are ridiculously tame and perhaps even easy to handle.

But this is my life. 
This is what is important to me.
My grandfather, who whispered to me once that I was his favorite. A whisper I will never forget.
And my dog, who loved me unconditionally. 

And now I sit here in the dark of my dorm room, my iTunes on shuffle and tears streaming down my face, writing this angsty piece of shit. Gods, shoot me now.


Does it ever really get better? Does it ever stop hurting? Does the space inside where my loved ones used to live ever really get filled up again? 

I hate this. 
This stupid sadness that makes ever song feel like a requiem for the dead, that causes tears to course down my face at the most insignificant mentions.
The stupid fact that it's been nearly two years since his death and burial and I still miss him fiercely. 

Well, that's all for now.
Expect more in the near future.