If I possessed more decency, I would volunteer at a shelter. But right now, that greedy monster we call the ego is telling me to get out of Dodge.
Yeah, it might be nice to just drive. Hell, I could put a few thousand miles on the car just for the pleasure of wasting gas and wearing out the oil.
What an ecologically-conscious "left behind spouse" I would be then, wouldn't I?
Sorry, I'm feeling like making fun of myself and my situation right now. I spent a good part of last night writing things that don't match up with the fact that I feel like puking up what little I'm eating. Weird.
Maybe it's my way of not facing this for what it is. I don't know. Sometimes I think it would be nice to just push my face into the keyboard and say, "There! Behold honest emotion!"
I hate writing, and today I feel compelled to do it.
Everything I can say seems so far from the way I'm feeling. How many ways can you describe that sense of having your lining turned inside out like a glove?
