And then there's always that point in the conversation, when we're sick of joking around about old times, or BLIND JUSTICE!, or names for cereals made from cigarette filters (butt-o-bits, of course) or whatever it is that night that's taking up the space between the drinking and smoking. There's a lull and a sense of expectation like the kind that comes with a yellow light, and everything slows down and finally stops on "So, how are you doing, really?"

And I can't blame anyone for asking, because I know I'd do the same, and, honestly, I like that my friends are asking. I'm going to miss it when they're not asking, when what happened March 11th, 12:55pm becomes just as much a part of my past as someone's childhood braces or a fourth grade fight. No one's asking me now if it still hurts where Anton Zaleski stabbed my wrist with that pencil.

And I think I always start with "I'm OK, I guess," and then launch off into whatever new thing I noticed that week. Maybe I found myself staring at a vase she had and realized, freshly, she was gone. Or maybe I'd tell them about a dream of her I had, or just how really fucked up it is to fucking catch yourself realizing that you don't have any fucking parents, and it makes you mad and sad. No matter what, I try to be honest with them and not be stoic, because they're friends, and they're really asking, and why not? Who else could I tell these things to? This is part of what makes them my friends.

I still pray, from time to time. I still believe in God, and an afterlife. My brief flirtation with atheism was never serious or credible. It's just not in my nature. So I found myself praying the other night. It was nearly a month after, and I wanted to say something to God. I didn't know what. Not to be too precious about it, but I got about as far as 'thank you,' and couldn't add anything else. I'm just thankful. For my life, for hers, for everything else. I still love life, despite it all. I can't help it.

That's how I'm doing. I'm OK, I guess.