There's a scene in Monty Python's "Meaning of Life" that has become quite famous, almost archetypal, wherein a very large man, having eaten too much, explodes. His ribcage is splayed before us, heart frantically thumping along, and this man's face frozen in a permanent, "Uh oh."
You remember that?
That's me. The only exception I would throw out to you is that my guts haven't burst from overindulgence but, rather, trauma. I quite literally feel like my ribcage has been thrown open and I have to hold my guts or they'll fly across the room.
... And who wants that?
Maybe that's why I can't seem to get out of bed...?
Annie told me that each time we suffer from a broken heart, we cope differently. (I don't want to know how she knows this. I can only hope it's from a book.) Well, differently indeed. It's been over a week and I still can't seem to collect myself. I might be holding in my guts but everything else is flying away - oh, not broken off - attached by some string of flesh. There's my ability to write, hanging off of me like some cancerous pimple. (In case you're wondering, I wouldn't consider this writing. This is whining, which is close but... no.) My narcoleptic needs have grown like a boil on my back that seems to stick me to my bed. And my attention span? It's hanging out of both ears by 15-foot long, stretched Silly Puttys of skin...
But, I'm coping.
I'm going to work, where the Cisco buy-out of Linksys has put everyone into paranoid panic. "They're going to lay us all off," everyone says. Shut up. My heart is broken.
I'm hanging out with Keith more often... which is... um... new.
Anyway, what was the point of this? Oh, guts wide open, right! Basically, I'm in a lot of pain - all the time. When does this end? Other than alcohol and illegal drugs, what helps take the pain away? Any answers out there?