Well, for that week or so before my 18th birthday, things got bad. Very bad. It was the worst I can remember ever getting.
I almost checked myself into the hospital.
And then it was my birthday.
I took my dad to work so I could have his car for the day.
I went to the beach and reread The Book Thief for a while. Then I went home and sat on the porch for a few more hours, still reading.
Then I drove out and got my dad and Alex from downtown. Alex and I got lunch and went makeup shopping, as I am completely incompetent with makeup. We hung out at home for a while, then I took them back.
My parents took me out to a nice restaurant and gave me an album of pictures from my whole childhood, which was nice. Afterwards, we went to a gas station and I bought a lottery ticket. (Didn't win anything, but it was still fun).
My parents got me a large squid plushie, a kanken backpack, and a BUNCH of great antique photographs, mostly from the early 1900s. The best one was a silver exposure portrait from around the late 1800s.
I wouldn't say that I'm better. Not by long shot. But I don't think I'll do that anytime soon.
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