Despite the pain steering through my bloodstream, the NFL game was amazing.
Grandma and I got to spend some quality time together.
She didn't talk to me like everyone else did. She didn't say anything about how she'll miss me when I'm gone. She didn't tell me good memories of me as a child. Or stories about us.
She talked about the game. She talked about her feelings. She talked about her opinions. Her fetishes. Her dreams. Not the dreams you wish to do some day. The dreams you see in your sleep twice a week.
They made four touchdowns, two goals and blocked multiple passes. We chowed down hotdogs, and I purchased a large punk fluff of cotton candy.
Although they didn't win- down by four points- it was an unforgettable night. I couldn't stop talking about it for all of the following week.
When my hand could no longer wrote about my amazing experience, I pulled out my bucket list. Surprisingly, all I wanted to accomplish was painting a large canvas, and visiting Amsterdam.
The following week my mom and I ordered a large blank canvas and oil paints online.
The last week of month seven was spent low key. Sleeping thirteen plus hours, swallowing eight prescription pills four times a day, and vomiting in plastic buckets.
AUTHOR: Thanks so much for reading! I have some bad news coming... I apologize in advance ):
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