the whole world is moving, and I'm standing still.

The stages of grief, as designed by Elizabeth Kubler Ross, who evidently has a grand idea of herself as some fancy shmancy transformation guru, are as follows, via Google:

• SHOCK & DENIAL-

• PAIN & GUILT- ...

• ANGER & BARGAINING- ...

• "DEPRESSION", REFLECTION, LONELINESS- ...

• THE UPWARD TURN- ...

• RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH- ...

• ACCEPTANCE & HOPE-

These moronic steps were designed mostly for the death of a loved one, but I'm pretty sure this daffy bitch's theory could hold water with the end of a relationship as well. It goes without saying that this smug Kubler Ross idiot is on my shit list, a few rungs there under God (who gets top billing and will for the foreseeable future, to hell with the consequences) It is fair to say that if I'm following this fucking bullshit, I am apparently at the anger and bargaining stage, which basically means I want to kick everyone in the fucking nose because there's no one to beg and there's nothing to bargain with. Boom! Bullet fired out of the gun, bomb!! yelled on an airplane. It's over. As my aunt says, too bad, so sad, sorry for your bad luck.

Everything is coming to a head. These past few months, these past few weeks, the past few days, hours, minutes. These past few months I've been stumbling around in a terrified daze, and I didn't even realize how bad it was until he told me I'd wake up and look at him with a sour look on my face. It's like when you get in a car wreck and sometimes you don't gush blood-you seep. Slowly. Well, I've been seeping, and now I'm gushing, and I just want to stop the bleeding. There just doesn't seem to be enough towels to soak it all up.

Seeing as though I can't scream and yell in the condo, and that I definitely won't be able to have this steadily looming outbreak of rage in my new apartment, I suppose there's a tree located somewhere in a park that is going to bear the brunt of a lot of kicks and screams and punches very soon, if I don't get hauled off for disturbing the peace first.

I'd be in another hotel room tonight if I could square it with myself, but I came back to the condo knowing what I had to do. I started to try to do it, but every time I took a picture down from the walls, every time I wrapped something fragile in bubble wrap, I felt another fissure cracking across the surface of my heart. I have been dreading this next step, I'd rather do anything then have to look at the office where I used to find so much solitude looking so bare and empty, wondering what it's going to look like when he has someone new in his life and they decorate it the way they want to, and I am really trying my best to not think about that, it's beyond my control and there's nothing I can do about it.

I remembered the day we moved into that place, how excited we were, how much relief we felt that we'd finally get a chance to really breathe, to relax, to enjoy ourselves, especially after all the shit we've been through. It was our new start. It was supposed to have been the best time of our lives. We paid our fucking dues, for fuck’s sake. Maybe we should have just stayed on Jaubert with the mice.

Staying in the hotel room helped, it helped me re-center myself, because it's hard to make all of these logistical moves when I'm still in the condo, I can't think past my sadness when I'm there, and at that moment I needed to put on my big girl pants and just plow through it. I had someone come and stay with me because I was afraid of being alone, and that was a huge comfort, but I know I can't have someone always there to see me through my own fight, and when it comes to other people, I definitely need to manage my expectations on what they can and can't handle. Still, being held and comforted was heaven.

I know this next part is going to be a total fucking bitch. There's no one else to do it except for me, and no amount of whiskey or stress aid is going to stop it from hurting any less. I couldn't bring myself to do any more-I removed most of my art and took a sleep aid and passed out, then got up and left again.

My sister's birthday is this week and it's also the day I'm moving. She's been having a rough time of it lately, and she's been there for me, so luckily enough I had a gift card from Gamestop that I got for Christmas, and I had some Go365 money saved up, so I managed to get her Assassin's Creed without having to pay anything out of pocket. Everything else, all of the money I've been loaned (that I WILL pay back) and saved, I'm hoarding like a politician.

I came back to the condo, took a shower and told myself-like Nike, just do it. Step by step, like I walked myself through it in the hotel room. Pretend you're going on a tubing trip and you're going down your checklist, you're good at checklists, just do it step by step. Wash your hair. Get dressed. Get the boxes out of your car. Move quickly and thoroughly. If you cry, you cry, but you don't stop. Not for a minute. Don't let yourself get overwhelmed; there's not that much left to do. Don't stop. Just fucking do it. The sooner you do it, the sooner you can get in that fucking apartment and lose your shit if you need to.

I'm fucking angry and bitter and resentful and I wish that I had a job where I could go and take it out on someone, taze them, tell them how fucking stupid they are, put on a uniform so I could become someone else and block it altogether, and I know it's not his fault but I envy him so fucking much that I could just fucking spit. I have all this shit that I know the truth about and it all just makes me fucking furious. I need to get out because I'm afraid of what I'm going to do if I don't, but I'm also heartbroken to leave, and it is a very confusing feeling. I wish I would have told that lady at Sunlake that I wanted an earlier move in date so I could bring a pillow and a blanket and just sleep on the floor and know that no one is dreading coming home to me, saying one thing but thinking another and ready for the responsibility of me to be off of their shoulders. Doesn't make him a bad guy by any means and I don't blame him for it, I just want to forget that I know it, it's like a splinter in my chest and I want to pull it out. As soon as I can.

We talked about the possibility of me moving out a few months ago, and we both knew this was around the time when it was supposed to be happening, and I've been dreading it, but somewhere deep down in my heart I wonder if he was ready for it. Not necessarily wanting it, but kind of like when you know you have a huge surgery coming up and it's going to fucking suck dick but you're ready for it to be over so you don't have to feel like shit anymore afterwards. I know he's thought about ending it before but hasn't because he didn't want to toss me out on my ass (and of course, he loves me, but love ain't everything, if only it were enough) and yet sometimes I wonder if he knew he had other opportunities, he would have left me anyway. He would have given me time to get my shit together, he's a good fucking guy, but still...sometimes I fear deep down in my heart, way to the gritty dusty bottom, that a part of him stayed with me this long out of guilt even when he believed someone else could have made him so much happier. I know I will never know the truth to that. To be honest, I don't want to, because I think a part of me already does, or at least believes it does, and that hurts enough on its own. And if it's true, I am too tired to be angry about it right now. What does it matter anymore? We were together; I want to forget all the rest. If only I could.

I know this all sounds very martyr like and I'm being a fucking pussy or a victim (hey, God or Jesus, or whatever, you made me, you should have given me a fucking switch if you don't like it) but to hell with anyone who thinks that and fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck those fucking stages of grief. Fuck them straight up the fucking dick and fuck that stupid Kubler Ross shitrocket self help bullshit, even if there's acceptance and hope at the fucking end of all of this fucking mess. I know I'm not always going to feel this fucking way but goddammit why even give this to me if you were going to take it away for the stupidest fucking reason, for no fucking reason at all, though I'm sure you have some lovely and convenient explanation like, "some relationships are just a lesson" and 'when a door closes a window opens" and all of that happy horseshit. If you really intended for this to end so that we could find happiness in someone else, well, then, I have no fucking problem believing that you're going to find someone else for me presumably 'better' only to yank the goddamn carpet out from underneath me in two years, five years, whatever. There's tons of people out there who are a hell of a lot more worthy of someone who truly loves them, people who cry themselves to sleep at night because they're goddamn lonely, and you don't give a rat's fucking ass about them. So yeah, I'm supposed to feel fucking grateful for you giving us ten years, most of those years being incredibly happy, and somehow be okay with the fact that you decided one day to fuck with one of us for no fucking reason at all except maybe you were feeling petty, or someone in fucking India took your name in vain, or the devil was playing hooky that day so you had to stick it to someone. I'm supposed to feel grateful that I got it at all, is that it? I know you're only responsible for so much, given that you also gave us free will and both of us didn't handle it very well and said and did things that didn't help, but goddammit, if you wouldn't have fucking made it happen in the first place...you could have just left us alone.

So yeah, I don't feel very fucking comforted or very hopeful right now. You threw a lot of fucking shit at us in ten years, but we fucking handled it, and then you gave us something that defied fucking sense or reason and you gave it to us at a time where we were physically and emotionally unable to handle it and then you made it so that no matter what we tried, nothing fucking worked and we both ended up feeling like fucking assholes. So yeah, I'm fucking furious. There is no fucking reason to be hopeful when it comes to you. Sure, he's going to be fine, I already know that, I can already tell. The second I walk out that fucking door he's going to reach down deep into himself and flip that fucking switch that you so kindly gave to him (He says he'd give anything to not have it, I say the grass is always fucking greener) and he's going to be fucking fine. He gets to be calm and rational and be blessed with the emotional strength to just absorb it and move on, and like he told me the other night, he's done apologizing for it, so yeah, that's another thing I'm fucking pissed off at you for, because I can't blame him for wanting to be happy, but I can blame you for making me feel all of this fucking shit on my own. I know I'm going to be fucking fine sooner or later, I have things looming on my horizon and I've always known what would be on his if we ever ended, but hey, what the fuck, life's a bitch, right? What right do I have to complain? Shit happens. Relationships end. Grin and bear it. Accept it. Move on. Be glad you had it at all in the first place. You're trying to make me tougher, right? Sure. Sure, you're going to make me happy again. Right up until you do this. I'd love to know the fucking idiotic reason for next time. If there is a next time. I don't know if you've noticed or not, but there's only so many relationships that can be lessons before life runs out; we don't have endless time. You created us, you fucking know that.

Trust me, I won't hold my breath. Go and find someone else to fucking fuck with. Sure, love's a gamble, there's no guarantee and people say this all the time like it matters: 'oh, you have a right to be happy! God is going to provide!"

Nobody has a right to be happy. The universe doesn't give a left horse nut if you're happy. If you find it, you find it, and no matter how you fucking try to protect it or guard it, if life wants to take it away, it takes it away. If it wants to give it back, it will. But there are always conditions, tiny print. If you get happy in this life, you're lucky. But you sure as shit don't have a right to it, even if you're a good person.

And by the way, if I somehow lose my shit and in a moment of weakness beg for help, fucking ignore me, I don't expect your assistance, especially after this little diatribe. I know I've got me to depend on and you're making me stand on my own two feet, but if you wanted me to handle this shit better you should have fucking made me someone else. Believe me, I fucking wish you would have. Maybe you're not even to blame, maybe it's the universe, maybe I should watch the fucking Shack again, maybe I'm blaming the wrong fucking person or deity or magic fairy in the sky, and maybe I'm just being over-emotional and dramatic and immature, but hey, guess what-I didn't ask for this shit either, so tough fucking titty. You’re God; you know all the answers, you don’t have to be scared, you just expect blind trust and look at the goddamn world; look what we get for giving it to you.