would you like a little whine with that?

This morning I feel fucking sorry for myself because I need to fill out a little yellow piece of paper because Z is stage crew on a show.

I have no fucking answer for somebody to put in the Emergency Contact space in case we cannot be reached, much less two names.

We have no fucking friends here. We are just here, all alone.

Now, mind you, in all the years of her doing stuff, I’ve never had a situation where the emergency contact needed to be contacted, but in L.A. I always had a number for that spot, and a number that I knew would reach somebody who would handle it as I would want it handled.

Fuck Minnesota.

yellow piece of paper
on the way home from the airport

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