And it started with a whimper, the same shitty pain in my shoulder that crawls upward through my neck and from what I understand, is the culmination of seven years of intermittent pain from an injury I sustained while attempting to restore the 1926 Craftsman that I used to know as my home in San Diego, coupled with a few really stupid tricks which include overcompensating at the gym, a car accident, emotional stress and grinding my jaw at night.
*Cue whining violin and literal old fart noise*
I left a message for my friend whom I'll be spending time with this week, regardless of my abrupt termination from the disastrous mistake I was about to make with a man I love very much, but not enough to put myself through another six years of the highest of highs and the lowest lows. See, the trouble is, those highest of highs will never sustain you in the depths of hell. That's the place where all bets are off. No matter how you attempt to compensate for your loss and grief, you always end up face down in the bottom of the black pit of despair. The rebound guy, the carefree (albeit great) sex, excess after excess – nothing fixes it until you can finally say "FUCK THIS". Nothing will free you from your grief except the time it takes for you to finally, one day, not just see what went wrong, but to once and for all wrap it all up in a shroud of acceptance, place it on the offering pyre, AND SET FIRE TO IT!
Well, Sherman's just been through Atlanta. Pass me the marshmallows.
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