Try once more, like you did before.

I’ve been hanging out with my brother Poochie. He took me to Dairy Queen. Obviously, he is an amazing person and loves me very much.

Despite his fun and understanding company, today has been a rough day. Geriatric Poodle doesn’t know where the hell he is, so he barked until 2 a.m. this morning. And I woke up having dreamt about Mr. Wonderful.

I’ve been crying a good part of the day.

Poochie just left, and I’m headed back home tomorrow. I have pretty much sat on my ass for the last five days. I’ve watched enough TV to last me for a year. So far, I’ve experienced these stages of grief:

  • The eating too much homemade pumpkin bread stage
  • The “I just know we’re going to get back together” stage
  • The “Well, maybe it would be a good idea to take a Tylenol PM” stage
  • The subsequent stoned out of my mind stage
  • The watching Celebrity Rehab and suddenly feeling a lot better about my life stage
  • The bubble bath and trashy magazine stage, including its substage seeing photos of stars without makeup and suddenly feeling a lot better about myself

I’m sick of lazing about, but I’m also terrified to go back to my real life – my real life with the giant, gaping hole / wound in it.

A dear friend just sent this to me, and I’m thinking now that it may be my theme song for the next few days.

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