AND TO THINK I WAS CURSED BY A BUDDHIST MONK ON HIS VERY SPECIAL PILGRIMAGE.

December 24th, 9:37 PM, Eastern Standard time.
From here on in, I write without...RENT.
What a glorious Christmas Eve this has been so far. Mass was wonderful, luminaries suck, and I'm high on my cloud of glory: the definite reality of The Phantom Of The Opera at TPAC tomorrow, and the possibility (Read: Reality) of Patrick Wilson in all his wimpish glory...Ahh.
It's almost too much for one girl.
But I'll contain myself into the evening and through tomorrow. For, at some point, I'll have to wake up from vacation and the reality of happiness, into a begrudging reality of pain and unfeeling isolation.
But that's later.

There's only us, there's only this...
No day but today.

Thanks, Larson.