Birthday presents are always wonderful, but I can't recall one quite as wonderful as this one.
I'm married now.
I think there's still part of me that is waiting for me to wake up, roll over, and discover that I'm still sleeping under threadbare blankets in a dumpy little apartment in London, sweet-talking my heater to life in the dead of winter. I guess I can't quite fathom being as happy as I am, knowing that each breath I take I am sharing with someone whom I love with all my heart. Maybe I miss being a belligerent child--though that's doubtful.
No. I don't miss that life at all. I don't miss who I used to be. I am who I am now, and I love myself because I am loved.
Sartre Erise Nicodey
Abner's still in St. Mungo's. I hate seeing him there. It makes me sick everytime I think about it to imagine him in that stuffy little hospital room, glowering miserably out a window while a bunch of nurses stick his arms with needles all day. He deserves better than that, and there's not a damned thing that either Poe or myself can do about it.
He'd better be out of there in time to be the Best Man at my wedding, or so help me I'll get in touch with Cornelius Fudge myself and demand that he's released. Oh yeah, I forgot to write that down too, didn't I? Me and Famke are getting married after we graduate. Yup, Father, that confirms it for you: I am queer. At least I'm happy.
Speaking of Adrian, I got a letter in the mail today from Chester Bowden, the son of a bitch who used to just stand there and let Adrian smack me and Mason around when we were kids. I'm sorely tempted to write my Uncle Holden and ask him to accompany me when Poe and myself go to visit him this Saturday. That way if the man tries anything, Holden can knock him flat on his back. Granted, I haven't talked to Holden since I was.. what, twelve? But I'm sure he'll be willing to help me out.
I need to get Sartre a birthday present before he realizes that I forgot it was his birthday.
David Thoreau Vanet
Teague is going to kill me.
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