So, basically, I fucked up two Feburary's ago. And you can say all you want about how bad it was, because it was and I know and I still love him. But it seems I was the only one. And no, I'm not off my meds.
In an hour I'm going to Peter's and we're going to get my tattoo. I'll have beat him! Woo! I'm scared. Less about actually getting it and more about walking into the shop and having to form a coherent sentence. I don't do well in new situations.