One foot in front of the other

Tuesday, Sept. 12, 2006, 10:04 p.m.

How long ago was my last entry? Ridiculously fucking long ago? Yeah, that's what I thought.

The whole "splitting up with Husband" thing is going according to plan, which makes me alternately relieved and death-beggingly miserable. All of your continuously supportive and otherwise awesome comments and cyber-hugs and stuff have really helped, though. For some reason, knowing that there are people out there who have never met me personally, but who still take the time to be all kinds of encouraging toward my pitiful-ass self, makes me more able to deal with humanity on a day-to-day basis.

I mentioned in my last entry (you know, back in the olden days?) that I've moved in with a friend of mine, another Army chick (who went through a similarly messy divorce about a year ago). She's already gone through the worst of it, but on bad days, the two of us can form a Bitterness Forcefield that no foe (i.e., "man") mayest penetrate. I've only been living here for about a week and a half now, but things are already starting to look up.

Except, that is, when I talk to Husband, who has made the mature decision to inform me that I am "a terrible person" who has "mental problems" and that he doesn't want to talk to me "until the divorce papers are ready to sign" because his life "is so much better now."

Yesterday was a day on which my actions, foolishly, were largely dictated by those statements. Last night, being an bit of an emotional wreck (in the same way that Dubya is a bit of a moron), I chose to handle my distress via the Drinking Heavily While Listening To Joni Mitchell Songs method. What can I say? I'm a sucker for horrifyingly bad decisions.

However, the rest of the week should be less hangover-inducing. My strategy is to focus all my energy on hating my job, so there won't be any left when the sadness hits. Can I get a toast to monotony?

I'm bordering on incoherently tired right now, so I won't really go into all the drama that has been my life over the past few weeks. Instead, I'll just go eat some greasy food and go to bed, most likely with Fucking Crazy-Ass Cat hot on my heels the entire time. (Gnawing my heels, probably. He's seriously insane.)

But first, I give you: