On Sunday, I was numb. On Monday, I was empty. On Tuesday, I was hysterically optimistic that everything would miraculously work out. On Wednesday, I was filled with deranged obsessiveness, which in turn had caused me to fill Joey’s voicemail with needy messages that made me hate myself, and then angry ones that assured him that I hated him much more. On Thursday, I was back to being grief-stricken. And by Friday, I had resigned myself to the fact that I would never willingly celebrate another New Year’s Eve.
