I'm getting better. Its been a few weeks now, and I can listen to The Stones' "Wild Horses" without tearing up. Its a good thing really, because I don't cry well, and in the aftermath of a crying jag and a nap, I get the most horrendous and mock-worthy puffy-eyelid.

Michael would take one look at me and laugh, I just know it. Especially because the last time it happened I was drunk as all hell at his wake and looked like a goddamned trainwreak in a pencil skirt.

I was so angry with myself; I slept right through the Streak of Honour and the Pantsless Toast.

Luckily his little sister got pictures

In other news, I'm a little worried about how this is all going to translate into my writing. I'm not blind enough to deny that writing is my coping mechanism, always has been, and I know my journey is going to flick back onto my characters. All of them.

I have visions of Peggy from my SPN Clotheline 'verse mourning Dean with "Wild Horses" going on a loop in my head. Driving along beside the ocean, wind on her face, that song playing loud, the hilt of his gun visible beneath the flap of her messenger bag... Dean was twenty-nine when he died. So was Michael.

*Shudder* I still don't know where that will go. Its kind of awful to think of.

In terms of my orignals...its like looking down a long corridor and seeing the names of my dead on each of the doors that line the hallway. I know how to grieve for them now, or rather, how to write the grief for them.

Sometimes I wish I didn't.