It's interesting how we become so immune to the pain of death. Maybe because we see it so much in movies and on television... charlie and i were watching a movie about a guy who killed for the sheer joy of killing- it was just an addiction like smoking or drinking... and i found myself justifying it in my mind... the movie guides you along this path, of course, so that you're siding with the killer, feeling sorry for him, pardoning his bloodthirst. That's our day-in-age, when you watch someone's throat get slashed and see blood spurting out of their jugular and it doesn't even phase you.

But it means when a real death happens, you're hardened to it. A friend of mine from home died last week of an overdose, and it was hard for me to separate fact from fiction. Fact: He's dead. Fact: I will never see him again. Fact: this is life. Had I been home, or even on the same coast as home, it probably would have hit me harder... but I'm not. I'm in the middle of the country where everything is easy-peasy, friendly, fun, and summer-time. I go to work and I work hard, I come home, cook dinner, drink wine, and watch movies with my boyfriend. Sometimes I go for a jog ("to better myself"). This is my life right now. There's no room for the death of a buddy. So my mind didn't make any room. I'm still grappling with it now- sometimes I'm overcome with waves of realization or sadness, but most of the time I just haven't accepted the fact that he's not on this earth anymore- that I'll never see him again.

What is this lassitude?