If They Were Here, They’d Be Laughing at Your Breakdown.

(And Goddamn, You Miss That Twisted Laughter)

Alright, you beautiful, tear-streaked, probably-just-punched-a-wall warriors. Let’s get into a specific kind of agony that grief, in its infinite capacity for cruel fucking irony, likes to serve up cold. It’s not just the silence, the emptiness, the relentless ache of their absence — though those bastards are always front and fucking center. No. This is…