Okay... sober now.
Cia called last night. Didn't much feel like putting a shirt on, so it was a voice-only conversation, but it was good to hear from her. Bless her, she's worried sick about me.
I wish she wasn't. I'm... Well, I'd like to say that I'm fine. Which I'm sure would sound like a blatant lie, but I am. So I told her I'm "coping" instead.
Of course, I said this while lying half-naked on my bunk in the dark drinking whisky and smoking cigars, which probably didn't paint a good picture. But a man's allowed a few luxuries in my position. Like moping.
Self-pity is a luxury, and like all luxuries should be taken only occasionally and in moderation. I indulged in it last night, but today, and tomorrow, and the days to come - I won't. I'll get on with things. I'll adapt, overcome, thrive. Just like I always have, just like I always will.
I have purpose, and that's all I've ever needed.