This is a week when I wish I could justify listening to Metallica or… well that’s the only angry loud band I know… just something that’s heavy and awful and angry, using idiotic words without rhyme or talent. Just angry noise.

This week I’ve been on the brink of either hanging my head between my knees and weeping. Or smashing through a window using my recently toned biceps and an army of lap dogs that have come to love me. Or writing a huge FUCK YOU in the sky as I fly away to either paradise or burn up in the sun. I’ve just ranged between angry and sad and weary and hopeless. I’ve lost my keys four times. My phone twice. My wallet the week before. My iPod completely died. Along with two dogs at the clinic. 

This next week I think I need to drive and drive and drive for awhile. Maybe take the dogs and a journal and Breakfast at Tiffany’s and a novel like Jane Eyre that will refresh my senses and strength and perspectives and grace. Forget the computer and the phone. Just expensive wine and expensive chocolate and expensive fish. Walk around without makeup, nude in the sunbeams, dipping in and out of hot baths, hair stuck to my neck and shoulders. 

This past week GB has been gone. Maybe that’s half of it. It’s time he owes me a six-pack…