A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal. -Oscar Wilde

Thursday, April 28, 2011

::insert clever blog post title here::

Oh Penguins, my Penguins. They did better than I thought they would, given how the season went. But still.

Wow. Almost 1/3 of the way through the year, and I'm frankly pressed to come up with anything good to say about 2011. Some well-meaning souls have noted that I'm doing so well. In actuality, I'm holding on by the tips of my raggedy fingernails, gritting my teeth to make it through each day and collapsing as soon as I'm safe, free and clear from having to interact with another human being. I feel this pressure to be OK with a capital-O capital-K, to make other people not uncomfortable and shield the true, ugly depth of my grief. Even when other people do mean it when they say that they're available for me, I just... I don't know. It's not anything with those folks (and you know who you are), it's just that I feel like I don't have the energy/ will/ spirit/ whatever to even be around other people being normal. I mean, I appreciate the gestures. I just don't know that I can do anything normal. Hell, even casual brunch with plenty of mimosas was overwhelming, as is going to the pool or trivia or anything I used to enjoy. It's like, it's such a deep, profoundly personal sense of loss that I feel like I'm isolated from almost every other person around. I know it's costing me a lot and I'll regret it someday, but right now? I can hardly handle the interaction required at the grocery store.

Hm. Let's think of something good. NFL draft? Well... kind of a little more concerned about whether there'll actually be a season. Er. I guess I can say that my sketchy neighbors are actually moving out. Yay? I don't know. Dear Rosemary is my new favorite song? Hm. Maybe I'll think of something later.

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