It's My Story and I'll Cry If I Want To

I'm just going to say it. I'm suffering from a broken heart. Suffering being the operative term, and that translates to a kink in my I-Must-Write-for-the-Masses gene, so apologies for being MIA. In fact, I wasn't going to write about this at all, but heartache is universal, right? Plus this is my story and I get to post whatever the hell I want on my blog, and god knows (in his infinite imaginary wisdom) it is the one thing that actually does belong to me.

Of course, it's not finished, but the facts remain. I'm much like a water faucet these days because the complications surrounding my broken heart are, well, complicated. My reliable companions are Sara Bareilles, John Mayer, and Jason Mraz cuz their sappy lyrics and well-timed crescendos really get me, though I confess, right now even "Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" chokes me up. As does brushing my teeth. And peeling a mandarin. And getting dressed. Getting undressed is arguably worse, for reasons as inexplicable as why I can't put on mascara with my mouth closed. No, I can't. Don't even try to argue with me right now.

Add to that, this past weekend I moved into my new digs and ran smack-dab into my past. Nostalgia in the bottom of boxes undisturbed for almost two years. Like a live CD of my baby sister (gone now for three years) crooning with her band; a sentimental scrapbook from 25 WriterGrrls who sent me off to Florida feeling valued and uplifted; and handwritten love letters that make me wonder if I'll ever again be someone's first and only choice. Yeah, waterworks.

I also unearthed some treasures that made me smile, like a ceramic rooster with its butt in the air, a shiny aqua bag the size of a Rubik's cube with boa feathers, and a charming "little" sum'n-sum'n in need of new batteries. Actually, I wept about that one too, but those were tears of joy. Obviously.

I'm now resorting to soothing my big tittybabyness with nightly Spartacus marathons. It's rough, but a girl's gotta do . . . stuff. And naked gladiators are quite the distraction, even without the requisite glass or three of wine and gobs of Tostitos stuck in icy blobs of Schweddy Balls, which is like having my own little sailboats in a bowl of Arctic debris. Who can resist diving in and stabbing and twisting the hell out of them with a spoon?

Anywho, the blogging herewith resumes at Fragrant Liar, and I'll be around to see you all as soon as I can. Meantime, I'm open to suggestions on where one can buy some long-lasting D's. In bulk, yo.
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