July 9th, 2002:

Going with my parents to eat Mexicans.

Either this sour candy is going straight to my head, or someone is eating baby food here.

I’m in the same spot.

I am hungry. Very hungry. And food keeps my mind off of things, which isn’t good, but it’s better, I guess.

But I have nothing to eat here. Which means I have to go somewhere. Which means I have to drive. And driving is a trigger. Like coffee, and rock and roll, and deep thoughts, and nice conversations, and rain, and old friends. And triggers are okay when the gun’s not loaded. But it is. And triggers are okay when the safety is on. But she’s a whole country away on a swing set in a park.

So here I am. One bullet. Six chambers. One gun. No safety. A million triggers. Is it worth the chance?