I’m supposed to be going to a birthday party tonight. Pizza and balloons. Probably hats. The whole works. Yes, I can be wholesome.

More or less. The birthday boy is in his forties. Friend of mine. He’s this really outgoing, like-able, funny guy. He has a social intelligence that amazes me, sometimes. His mother helped him with the invitations.

It’s the first real live birthday party I’ve been invited to in a while.

Any other time, I’d be going to the party, but right now, it feels wrong. I feel wrong. I still haven’t been able to decide if I feel sick because I’m off-schedule and exhausted, or because my sister’s death is finally starting to sink in, or if–maybe–I’m really sick.

I have no idea how to tell the difference. The standard “drink fluids” is not helping. Or maybe I’m just not choking down as much as I thought I was.

And I didn’t even think of the party until someone mentioned it, today. Even then, I thought it was tomorrow.

Maybe I should have forced myself. I don’t know. But right now…  No.  I’m not going. I think I’ll give him a card later, though. I’ll work it out.