Some Things Should Not Be Read on the Subway
As I picked up My Friend Leonard the other night to read some more of it, I told Tay that I hated the book and he asked me why I would continue reading something I hated.

I hate it not because it’s bad, or poorly written, because it’s neither of those things. I hate it because, like A Million Little Pieces, it wrenches at me like no other book has ever been able too. There’s so much rawness and anguish, and sadness that I read it and I want to cry, openly, and loudly. I stood on the subway this morning, engrossed in each page I read, and I bit my lip to fight the tears that were pushing their way up. I hate it because of the way that it makes my heart hurt; and yet, it’s a pain that I gladly endure.

From My Friend Leonard:

I give her the roses.
I give her the last piece of cake.
I tell her about my day. The best day I’ve had on my own in Chicago.
I got a promotion.
I went for a nice, long walk.
I spent my hard-earned money on something beautiful.
I ate that beautiful thing, and it was tasty.
I made a friend.
I was given a gift.
I learned something.
It was a great, great day.
I tell Lilly I love her, miss her. I spend my last dollar on a token home. Part of me expects Lilly to be waiting for me. I would give everything for her to be waiting for me. She’s not. I’m alone. I lie down, can’t sleep.
I wait for the darkness.

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