100

...Better make that a few years.

...

Today was the one-hundredth day since Dad died. It is a round enough number that I feel I should say something or at least think something to mark the occasion - I did not do so on earlier ones. But even now I don't know what to either think or do.

Without Dad, it no longer matters what I do. I can sit here idly or do meaningless housework; the house will remain empty and quiet. Whatever things I do or fail to do seem like playacting, decoupled from any real-world goals, not that I have any left. Some of this is depression and shame over the many, many ways I failed Dad in his last year, but even if the magnitude of my fuckups did not weigh me down - even if I could be proud of how I handled things - the hollowness of Dad's absence would be plenty enough to keep the apathy going.

So: no ideas. But today is day 101. About fifteen thousand to go, I guess.

(Also, I really need to find a job. None of the above will be improved by my sleeping under a bridge.)