You ever feel like you've woken up still drunk? Because that's been every night this week. And of course, drinking again tonight. I'm even taking pains to type, and retype, every single thing, because I'll be damned if I screw this shit up. It's just not happening.
Officially, I've got two days. Two days until my lease is up. I have no job, very little money, no prospects for a new place, or a new job, for that matter, and what am I doing? That's right, getting drunk. Again. Fuck all of this bullshit.
Fuck typing.
I've beeen getting packages for a few weeks now. Each is really stupid, a whole bunch of tape inside a box, with a folded up page inside. And each page is a new entry, a new "day" in my brother's life. Why am I just getting this now?
Eighteen days, I think. I can't remember, since I put the damn things away as soon as I get them. He was there for eighteen days. And I've...I've been reading some insane things in this manuscript. Things that don't make sense, can't make any sense. And I refuse to believe in them.
The police finally are convinced that nobody is dropping these packages off, so they basically called me a crackpot and told me to fuck off. Not the nicest way to end my working relationship with the cops, but hey. At least they didn't tell anyone else. I'm pretty sure that my brother's friends and girlfriend don't know about this. If they did? Then I'd have to explain why I think he's alive, and why I won't give up on him, something they're all willing to do.
And that's okay. Really it is. It's just...not for me.
Maybe I'll get another package soon.
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