Well, I'm doing better. I've stopped wandering around my apartment in a daze (it's a one-bedroom, that got old fast). I'm no longer severely nauseous. I went to the beach and had a good chat (justifying the existence of cell phones) with the old campmate I met at Beth's last party. I still haven't talked to many of my friends, aside from the bury-the-lead catharsis below, which I'm now a little embarrassed about, but have decided to let stand.

I'm getting my ever-inappropriate sense of humor back. Last night, after a few beers I'm happy I didn't cry into, I was doing impressions from the "Kenny Dies" episode of South Park -- "Kenny was my friend. Why can't God take someone else's friend?" -- then telling people, no, they didn't have to feel bad because they laughed.

It's still surreal-ing me out, and I'm not convinced it's sunk in. I had a moment last night when I realized that soon, I'll catch up in age to my older friend who always did everything first. I'll be 30, and she'll be 30, too. And someday I'll be 50, and she'll still be 30.

I had another moment this morning when I went out onto the patio to water my plants. Beth gave me those plants when she moved late last year. Fucking houseplants outlived her. I was reminded of when Rick realized he'd outlived the World Trade Center.

Next person who dies better be freakin' elderly, you hear me?