So, I knew Terry Pratchett for a long time. I don’t know that I’d be presumptive enough to say we were friends, but we had each other’s numbers and would text and meetup back in the days when I was doing stuff for the CBDLF. (He once said that I was young Granny Weatherwax. A compliment indeed, although I’m way more Nanny Ogg if honest.)

When he died, I was devastated. Literally like I lost a brother. Even typing this, I’m trying not to cry. His books saved my life, and I do not say that lightly. I never read his last book: The Shepherd’s Crown, because if I didn’t, there was always one more Witch book waiting.

I don’t drink. On my home, I picked up cheeses I never let myself buy because of cost, two of the best bottles of wine I could justify to myself, and some fresh berries from the farm down the street.

I’m so afraid that this is the end of all times, that I’m going to drink wine, eat cheese and read Pratchett, just in case it’s my last chance to pretend we’re gonna be ok.