I hate the first week of November. Hate it! I guess I always have too, because now there is no fantasy that any remnant of summer is still in the air. Those eighty-degree days are long gone, at least in my neck of the woods. Taking the dogs out in the morning requires a jacket and shoes. No more barefootin’ it.
Then there’s the reversion to standard time. Is there really anyone who likes it getting dark at five-thirty in the evening?
Those, in themselves, are enough for me.
It’s gotten so much worse over the past four years. I’d say it’s practically unbearable. There’s just no getting around the complete sadness of that being the week that Ryan was brutally attacked (by Austin Vantrease and Jonathan May of Newark, Delaware). It’s the week that my family’s joy went straight to hell.
Ryan, as we knew him, was forever gone. His essence was literally kicked out of him.
Yep. Go to hell. Go directly to hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.
These past four years have been surreal. It’s like living in a bad dream. Time seemed to both stop and drag on endlessly simultaneously. How is this possible? But, it is.