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[Happy Sunday, Luceti. Donatello hopes you're having a better morning than he is. That shouldn't be very difficult, given that right now he's wishing he were dead.
He tends to feel that way when he's having a migraine. And right now he's having just about the worst one he's ever had. He woke up this morning with thirty-two years worth of memories trying to cram themselves into his sixteen-year-old brain, and the laws of nature just don't really like that kind of thing. Thus, Donatello will be lying in a dark room, moaning quietly to himself, until the superabundance of memories sorts itself out and normal mental functioning is able to resume.
He'd really appreciate some silence right now. But the journal is open on his nightstand, you can probably hear his misery, and nothing but the goodness of your heart is stopping you from making his horrible day even worse.]
He tends to feel that way when he's having a migraine. And right now he's having just about the worst one he's ever had. He woke up this morning with thirty-two years worth of memories trying to cram themselves into his sixteen-year-old brain, and the laws of nature just don't really like that kind of thing. Thus, Donatello will be lying in a dark room, moaning quietly to himself, until the superabundance of memories sorts itself out and normal mental functioning is able to resume.
He'd really appreciate some silence right now. But the journal is open on his nightstand, you can probably hear his misery, and nothing but the goodness of your heart is stopping you from making his horrible day even worse.]
