[Donatello woke up this morning so relieved to be back in his own body that all he could do was cry into his pillow for five minutes. By the end of this catharsis, part of him felt that he really should look in on his housemates to see what state they were in today, but another part just really didn't want to know how much misery he was still in for. These two parts debated for a while, and concluded that they would do the responsible thing, but only after they had had (a) coffee, and (b) some time away from the house.]

[That decided, Donatello hauled himself out of bed, bundled up, and headed to the coffee shop to spend a few hours staring into space and downing as much caffeine as he could stand.]

[Some time around his third cup, he opens his journal and begins to write.]

Usually I'm in favor of having as much information as possible, but sometimes it really is better not to know. Things will never be the same again.

If only I could forget.

[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.]