Strangers

“Never Talk to Strangers.”  Everything I remember about this book I had when I was two or three:  The Easter Bunny isn’t a stranger because everyone knows him.

My dad picks up hitchhikers.  At least once, when I was two or three, my carseat was put in the trunk to make room.  

Bad advise and inconsistency.  My childhood.

Chapters

‚ÄčI have some journals, mostly from a pretty dark time.  

I’m afraid to read them.  

I don’t want to throw them away in case I want to read them in the future.

I want to throw them away so no one can read them if I die.

Dying unexpectedly is the scariest part of dying.

Picture

This is what anxiety can look like.

A busy day, but in no way a bad day.  Hot, but not as hot or humid as it had been.

Started off with bra shopping.  Not fun, but the company still makes the same bra I bought last time, so pretty painless. They were even on sale.

Killed 20 minutes in a store where I enjoy browsing.  Found an awesome giraffe for a surprisingly low price.  I think I hugged her before putting her in my cart.

Went to the spa for a manicure.  Left there with sparkly, purple nails.  

Grocery shopping.  Two stores, not a very long list.  Mid-week, not a lot of shoppers.

Started the day feeling alright.  Gradually, by the time I walked into the first grocery store, the overwhelming feeling of impending doom. 

It was the worst day ever.  For no reason.  I haven’t been able to completely shake it.