"Then you're allowed to call me a useless fucking cunt on the way there."

Justice. A fucking stick in my craw, like a goddamn toothpick broken off in my gum line. It creates a filter for all words to pass through, peppering every bon mot with hate.

David Ursuy's hockey helmet. I've had it for damn near 15 years now. Before I got pregnant with Luci, we'd drink like fish and caterwaul to the random iTunes ditties Urs would play. Thinking we'd be drunken louts forever, we promised each other- 50 and unmarred? We're meeting in Vegas, getting some overweight horseface in Elvis drag to hitch us & spending our golden years quoting Slapshot and watching Brenden Shanahan highlights on hockeyfights.com

Ursuy dropped his body at the end of May. In true "future is now" fashion, it became a apparent thanks to social media. A cold slap of sober with the doomscroll.

It is cold comfort to know there's nothing left unsaid between us. He never met my daughter in person and it hurts my gut like a bleeding ulcer.

Paul Newman doesn't judge my ugly crying.