Sola-numb. Dustfingers. More goodbyes.

Yesterday was a hiccup rescued with a lifeline fed continuously and generously down the side of the mountain to where I dangled, not sure if the effort of holding on was worth the thought of letting go. The white knuckle grip was beginning to ache and the tension ran like an electric current through the branch I was holding, threatening to blow me off in volts instead.

I had one Vicodin and one vodka on the rocks and then when we sat down with the children draped all over Ben to watch Inkheart I was asleep in seconds. Woke up a few times to see that I was missing an amazing movie and then it was finished, and Ben took the dog out, I took the kids to bed and we rendezvoused on the couch once again to watch Push. Except this time I didn't see much of anything, out instantly and finally my eyes opened to find him watching me.

What are you doing?

Watching you sleep.

He led me to bed and boom, out again. I slept from before midnight until six, when Bonham started his morning bark, and then he stopped and I fell asleep again until eight. Restorative, deep sleep free of nightmares, ghosts, anxiety or fear, oddly enough. Selfishly because Bridget wouldn't choose and so it was chosen for me. Sleep. Then everything else will sort itself out.

Ben flies out late tonight and it will probably be the last time I see him until the second week of September. He thinks I can't hear him when he talks in the Bridget-proof low tones to the others but sometimes I catch just enough and it breaks my heart because I know he'll say he'll try to get back soon, to provide the loft that might keep my hopes up. I know it's going to be hard. I know the other boys are here doing everything they can to fill in as guards, dads, carpenters, jar-openers, affection-dispensers and moral support posts you couldn't knock down with a bulldozer.

It's just that they're not Ben.

And that matters. So very very much.

I'm going to miss him. But I'm going to be very busy with finishing more stories and training Bonham up to be a good puppy, keeping the children busy with their bicycles and sidewalk chalk and library books and playing confessor and surrogate wife for my boys as they form the calm around my storm, as much support for them, I hope, as they are for me. Just in different ways.

What's left of the summer will be spent quietly, in the shade of the porch on the painted floor, with a pencil and a cellphone and a blank sheet of paper, a glass tumbler full of fresh blueberries to one side for snacking and a glass pendant hung on the screen door handle when it became too warm to wear any longer, a memory on a string of our week in Venice and the endless glass shops we combed to find that tiny orb with the green flower inside.

When the sun goes down the tiny white lights will twinkle on, one string at a time, and the words will flow out into the darkness and hopefully reach his ears, and he will find a way to weave his musings into song, because we simply never ever waste a word anymore.

Goodbye sweetheart. Tucker. Benjamin. I love you. Come back to me soon.

Snapping back.

Ben took this picture on his knees. That puts him almost level with me. You should see the one I took of him.
I suppose I need to change my profile picture here now, since I defected from RIM, sneaking across the border, climbing the electrified fence so that I could join the Apple colony where things are easy, smudged with fingerprints and there is no memory to be managed. Wow, that pretty much compares me to everyone else, if smartphones were people.

I suppose I should concede defeat and acknowledge the return of the Vicodin and vodka fairies because I don't deal with stress well. I don't know how.

I look happy, though. I think I can pretty much fake just about any emotion at this point. Lucky for that, it makes things easier for everyone else.

Expert level difficulty (sing it for me).

You wouldn't like me.
Keep moving on until forever ends.
Don't try to fight me.
The beauty queen has lost her crown again.

So here we are, fighting and trying to hide the scars.
I'll be home tonight, take a breath and softly say goodbye.
The lonely road, the one that I should try to walk alone.
I'll be home tonight, take a breath and softly say goodbye.

Yesterday was a Family Holiday. The four of us plus Daniel, Schuyler, PJ, Christian, Sam, Caleb, Duncan, Dylan, August, Lochlan and Mark spent the day together, with extended visits besides from Nolan and his boys and from Joel.

I'm always amazed when I can pack sixteen men into one room. This house is Victorian, the rooms are small. The men are not small. Okay, Lochlan and Daniel are smaller and frankly sick of me pointing that out online so let's just say it's a treat to have the dynamics of everyone here at the same time. Those who could not come called, and those who could not call wrote, there was no shortage of proof of live and love and I was able to check off another entire anxiety-free day in my life, I almost have a handful now. I'm proud of myself.

They were all relaxed, though, somehow. It was cold out, I was surrounded by jeans and sweaters and hoodies and warm smiles. Not having to be in charge. Only one tense moment early on when Ben put himself in Caleb's personal space and they exchanged a look so dark I could see lightning flashes in the distance and then inexplicably the skies cleared and it was clear blue sailing and I didn't stop to question it, I let it rest because they've reached a level playing field and that's where things are best so don't mess with it and everyone was so excited that Ben was able to carve out some days, he's learning how to concentrate in fragments since that's one of the biggest challenges of being a parent and so he can now almost slip in and out of his head with minimal damage workwise.

Thursday evening when he got home he pulled me into the hot shower with him and scrubbed me all over, sending rivers of soap over my skin and washing off any fingerprints that weren't his. Lathering up my hair and stripping the scent of the days without him from my head. Holding me so tightly under the stream against his chest so none of my breaths were without him. Washing off his life without me, his travels and time spent investing in the future so that someday he'll be free of his contract and he can go back to work at will which is the way he works best, ironically.

I have swung back to days without suspicion, secure in that I am loved instead of wanted as the prize, safe without cost and I don't know if that comes from Satan's best behavior or Ben's presence in my days and nights suddenly again or if there's something in me that I figured out finally. I don't know so I'll just take it, but not for granted, and see what happens next. It's just nice to have things the way they are supposed to be. It's rare but wonderful, as was yesterday, and I want my boys to know that they are my world and my air and my heart.

And so I told them. Didn't see much surprise on their faces.

What I did see though, on one, was the absence of the ego chip that flies home securely fastened to one rather large shoulder in particular. A chip that generally was taking around six or twelve hours to dissolve when it arrived each time.

Except for this time.

That chip was gone the moment he laid his eyes on me this time, and was replaced with the softened watery-quavery sweet-Ben with the quiet eyes and hollow angelic voice that I think he prefers to keep hidden behind a bitter defense. He didn't hide it this time. Not with me, anyway. And I didn't hide anything from him either, choosing to acknowledge the hardest aspects of his absences with slightly twisted variations on his own quantifiable solutions that make everyone happy. Who to spend time with, how to deal with the overwhelming fear-urges that take over and make us destructive, unhealthy. And so when he finally had a clean and untouched Bridget for his very own and he forced my head back, his lips against my jaw, forcing his thumb between my lips and the breath from my lungs, he said he could live with this, that he liked this, that I could be his heart and still manage to breathe, on my own, without his air when I had to. When I have to, not when I want to.

There is a difference. And it is defined at last, on a very important day, no less, so we can mark it forever.

Cake included.

Rock Star Caveman, take seventy-eight.

I was right. Ben was extremely thrilled to hear that Robert Redford is now off the market and it brings his competition down into the low twenties, as I have a whole list of people I will eventually imaginary-marry.

Except I say imagimarry, because I'm weird like that.

Ben told me all this as he tucked into a hamburger that he made on the barbecue in the backyard, because he's home for an extended long weekend. I'm sure he'll chase the burger with a lipgloss and some Bridget-porn and we'll pick up right where we left off. We seem to have the ultimate in-the-moment kind of marriage, where it doesn't matter where we've been or what we've done, the second we are back in the same atmosphere we're taking the same breath and deliriously thrilled to be in each others' company, with endless grins and boundless affection to bookmark separations that are too long and too painful to even mention, let alone explore with any effort. I know what I signed up for and so far I'm getting gold stars for being a good wife under duress. Imagine that.

Benjamin was tremendously grateful that Caleb didn't manage to extract too much of my soul, that August and I made up with the ease of true friendship and the boys were getting along otherwise and that, for once, he smells like burned meat instead of airplane fuel.

Chased me around the house for a whole damn hour yelling OM NOM NOM PRINCESS CARNIVORE! The kids were squealing. I tried to climb the dining room drapes and settled for throwing myself into the dumbwaiter three seconds too late and was pulled out by my ankles for a long delicious charbroiled kiss and two days of stubble that turned me rose-pink.

And I'm the weird one?

Right on.

Come-from-aways.

Every morning I wake up to boy-filtered news, thanks to the boys who send me links of interest and things I might want or need to know, or even just funny little things. They call it the Bridget News, and it's a roundup of links that I read each morning to get my take on the day.

Everyone sent only one link today. An ironic one, to boot.

Bob, what can I say? You were supposed to wait for me but apparently you grew tired of me chasing after painters, ministers and musicians. Didn't you see the trend? You were on the list and you've blown it now, mister. Congratulations and I hope she can keep up with you. I could have. Though Utah and I didn't get along so well, honestly, so you would have had to move here. It's okay, everyone comes here eventually. I collect people.

People like August, who came here and stayed because he and Jacob always liked the same things, and he has taken over the frustrated, appropriate outrage at all things Caleb, since Lochlan has apparently passed the torch and Ben is off working and pretending real life isn't real and fake life is. So my day yesterday, coupled with the fact that I had abruptly canceled dinner with August Monday night, was difficult. He made me wait over an hour for him for lunch yesterday and then sat there and ate and in between bites he ticked off a list of everything he doesn't like about me and everything I did Monday that was detrimental to my emotional well-being and everything Jacob had ever told him about the efforts made, once upon a time, to keep Caleb and I apart, be it on Cole's watch, or Jacob's or Lochlan's, or Ben's, of course, but we're still going under the assumption here that Ben is going to stick his head in the sand and wait me out because he needs to work and so he needs to focus.

The more August talked yesterday the more he simply turned into Jacob again. Only Jacob without wings and muscles on his muscles. Jacob without the curls mixed with straight. Jacob with a darker blonde crown and not-blue eyes. Jacob more laid-back and Jacob more objective.

I've gone down that road with August before. Letting him be Jacob in my head. I've done it with everyone, looking for one more moment with Jacob or with Cole, just a little more time. We know it's not a good idea. They are desperate to find comfort for me and I am desperate to have it.

Yesterday it caught up with me just enough and I finally stood up, picked up my bag and said a curt goodbye to him before the tears could completely ruin whatever thimbleful of composure I still possessed. I walked out and headed down the sidewalk and ran straight into Skateboard Jesus who asked if time was finally healing all wounds.

No, it doesn't change a damned thing, I said, and I kept walking. I walked all the way down past the University and I didn't stop until I was outside of a bridal shop with the most beautiful princess dresses in the window. White full tulle skirts and tiny embroidered roses, the kind of dress that would have been perfect for me only I've never had one like that, because like I told you before, my moniker has absolutely nothing to do with the high-maintenance type of princess label that gets cast about these days. I stood looking at the dress, oblivious to my surroundings until I felt hands on my arms and I thought Oh, no, I zoned out and someone's going to steal my bag and I was turned around to face August-Jake who told me he was glad he knew how bad things were and glad for my transparency of admission and glad that I don't keep my feelings inside ever.

I stood there and wondered who he saw, who he was describing because it wasn't me. It's easy to admit that you see dead love in every face and memories around every bend. Hell, that's child's play. It's the rest of what's in here that they should worry about.

I let him finish his thoughts because I won't lose another, I have my collection of wonderful hearts that form a fence around my broken one, sentries against further damage and I can't bear the thought of losing any more and so I suffocate all of them and I project and I rail against their good judgement and bad, too. I let him talk and then he asked what I had to say and I turned and pointed at the dress and asked once again where my fucking fairytale was.

Where is it, August? What's the holdup?

I don't know. I can only help but you won't let me.

I'm not your client, August.

No, you're my friend and I love you.

Then you need to not be yelling at me on the sidewalk.

It's okay, people think we're fighting over that dress.

I should just buy the dress.

What in the hell for?

For when Robert Redford comes to take me away from all this.

I think you've already been spoken for.

Ben will understand.

I doubt that.

Do you really?

Jesus, Bridget. Have you seen the way he looks at you?

Not recently.

You need a hobby.

I have one. It's men.

Stop joking around, Bridget.

I would but then I'll cry and you don't want to be the guy standing next to girl crying in front of the wedding dress of her dreams, do you?

I've been in worse places.

Are you running, too? Is that why you're here?

This isn't about me.

True. It's about an imaginary princess, isn't it?

No, it's about a girl and her friends.

Are you my friend?

One of the very best, I hope.

I thought you were in charge of keeping preacher's memories intact from my attempts to discredit him?

I'm in charge of keeping Ben and Lochlan apart so your life goes smoothly.

How is that going for you?

Pretty easy when Ben's away, actually.

Not for me.

I know, princess. But it will get better. The more he goes and comes back, the better you will do.

Now I know what you're in charge of, then.

What's that?

Encouragement and good vegan food.

Then next time you should eat something.

I will, I was too busy listening to your list of everything that was wrong with me.

Then you didn't hear a thing I said.

Your falafels were noisy.

He laughed. So loudly people turned and stared at this goofy couple standing in front of a bridal salon, the women with tears drying on her face and this man laughing, and they probably wondered what in the hell was going on.

It's okay, we wonder the same time sometimes. Actually most of the time. My circle has become a lazy oval and Robert Redford has finally killed my princess dreams for good.

Ben will be so happy.

Interest only.

I should be used to this by now. Caleb and his thousand-dollar suits and seven-hundred dollar shirts, his weekly haircuts and close straight-razor shaves that evolve into an incendiary threat to my fair skin with each point of contact. He activated the fluttering early in my hands by pretending to miss a cheek kiss and landing it just under my earlobe, a calculated, successful attempt to throw me off guard while he murmured appreciatively that my dress and killer heels were very pleasing to him. Ironically I chose that outfit specifically to throw him off, and as usual, I was lagging early on in the power struggle that we've come to define our adult relationship with.

I was an observer yesterday. Holding hands, ready with hugs and tissues as Ruth acted out quietly in the way she does when she doesn't know quite how to act, Henry checking and then mimicking her lead, hoping for cues to tell him what to do because he doesn't know. Perfect Uncle Satan deflecting everything smoothly with the promise of having phoned ahead to his favorite restaurant, securing a private dining room and arranging for an ice cream sundae bar, dropped just at the right moment as an incentive to find some happy in a sad day and they would toast with their silver spoons to giant pieces of their lives that are gone forever. I tried not to roll my eyes. He forgets the fallout from these kinds of extravagance. The sugar highs that only serve to magnify the hurt later on, that ice cream is a band aid, just like anything else.

But it wouldn't be important because he said he would stay until they were asleep and he kept that promise, even when Ruth came wandering downstairs close to eleven to make sure he was still there and he was, suit jacket flung over the back of the big easy chair, sleeves rolled up on now-wrinkled shirt, nightcap in one hand, Blackberry in the other. We've boiled life down to the occasional good dessert and keeping promises. Relationship dynamics and trust. The point people, a chart with retro-astro stars made of circles connected by straight lines to see how our own galaxy appears on paper and in our hearts.

I waited all day for the fear to trickle in and it didn't because he knows better, oh does he know better. Medicated just enough to not be able to hold my breath and yet still able to walk in those shoes was a nicer choice than trembling through the harder parts of the day without the lifeline of my guys, who were clutched in my hand in the form of Ben's old phone and Caleb only asked twice if I was ever going to put it down and I never answered him nor did I ever once put it down.

Sometime around four in the afternoon as the kids expressed their interest in more movie time, watching their father larger than life on the big screen, Caleb smiled and said he would cook, that we should keep watching. His excuse to round out the day, spending more time watching me than even I am used to and I'm sure every eyelash on my face and every freckle on my skin was inspected, catalogued and filed away for his future use. That's what they don't like, you see, the way he looks at me.

It's the same way Cole used to.

I know what he wants and he's not getting it, and we're going to be old and white-haired someday down the road and still doing this dance and I will win because he'll get tired first. I can get what I need, and not from him, and he's not having that same kind of luck and frankly I don't care. I left the focus on the kids and on the good parts of our memories of Cole and the rest can go fuck itself.

Last night it didn't seem like it's been only three years. It felt more like fifteen years, maybe that's because everything moves slower with Caleb. He's walking nerve gas to me and I have to fight to stay conscious because he brings out this horrible, animalistic craving in me to just give in and get what I need straight from God and Bridget's biggest enemy, only because it will be that much sweeter and I can just pay for it later. But now the tab is too high and I find myself working it off but not making a dent in the balance and at some point there will be an emergency plan invoked to help get it consolidated into something else but for now, for now it's still manageable. He is manageable. It's either the calm before the storm or the rare mellow Caleb that I could adore, save for the fact that he is probably the only person left on this earth who can destroy me without lifting a finger.

I don't like that, but I like that I'm done with yesterday and the children with their heads and hearts are still intact and the boys haven't killed Uncle One and I didn't add to Caleb's bag of tricks and eventually even this fluttering will go away.

Like Cole did.

Except not forever.

Today I have breakfast to go to with August, who was suitably Jake-angry last night when I cancelled our dinner plans with seconds to spare, because the Big Master Plan included his classic deprogramming, which consists of his counselor-rhetoric that I never really hear and his Jake-accent and Jake-sensibilities that helps bend me back the other way from exposure to too much Cole. I didn't get that because at that moment I needed more Cole and I wanted to be swallowed by the dark but I didn't, I just stood near the hole and looked down but of course I couldn't see a damned thing anyway, just the absence of light. And so I made another date because the delicious thrill of ice down my spine is enough cause for alarm and enough reason to explore why I'll put myself on the ledge for someone who isn't good for me and I'll have some crow for breakfast, choking on bones and feathers and being looked upon with horror.

It's funny, really. The pain is going to kill me, and my honesty is going to kill them. I told them I didn't care that they were angry so that they would know. I sounded my own alarm so that they would know and I endured the eight extra hours with the devil because I know.

You don't know.

The choices are not mine to make.

I don't know why I wrote this out. Maybe just because people wondered if I went off the deep end again and wound up with Caleb as monster, like after Jacob flew. I didn't, okay? Well, not that monster that he can be. I got the garden-variety everyday Caleb-monster. So you can relax.

Instead of being up early to run this morning, I was up early to let the puppy out, and I spent a small fortune in time with the newly risen sun and my thoughts and the cool still air of a summer morning. That sweatshirt-required cool dampness that burns off as the sun warms us? Love that part of the day. It reminds me of simpler times.

Or maybe everything just reminds me of everything else.

Three years ago today Cole took his last breath before my very eyes and I still haven't dealt with it yet. They had to peel my fingers off him, one by one and then my eyes and lastly my heart, but they left a huge piece stuck to him because they were in a hurry, you see.

I am not.

When I think about him I choke, swallowing back huge gulps of regret washed down with tears because of the way I have managed to vilify him for leaving. Because he was the smart one and I got tired of living on my knees and I did something so horribly selfish and destructive to my family that I still can't live with it but I got burned by it and in the end I think he got off easy and I am here to spend the rest of my life in emotional shackles as a punishment. As a curse. I shouldn't have done what I did but now the only choice left is to begin again. There's a lot of that around here. I always say I'll tear it all down and start from scratch, only it's not turning out the same. I can't rebuild it. It doesn't work so I get a little ways in and then I rip it down again. I need lessons. Time. Experience. Whatever, I don't even know anymore.

There were good things about him. Great things about him and there were awful things too, things he was driven to do because he couldn't control the incredible gifts he had, things he would live to regret when they became the platform upon which I would build my reasons for leaving.

I spent the early part of the morning talking to him. I've been awake for longer than I've been up, you see, with places to go and things to do and I brought a Maglite this time so I could see his face, so I had a focus on his dark blue eyes shot with red and his fingers now permanently curled into claws. Because he is the villain and I am the ghost and not the other way around. It's the only way I can picture us. I told him about the kids playing with the new puppy and part of his face broke off when he smiled, cracking and shattering on the floor like new porcelain. From the corner Jacob sent a beam and when Cole looked up again his face was whole but his eyes had further darkened into bottomless pools of blue unspoken emotions and I clicked the button on the light because my regret came flooding back in a tidal wave and I ran out of words and he screamed for me not to go but I had to. I had to because the fear of myself is so much greater than the fear of him.

Today we'll be going to the bench with Caleb, who is taking us out for a long brunch afterward and then to his loft for some home movies on his stupidly extravagant projection screen. The kids are looking forward to marking this day, though I don't even think they really remember Cole. How many memories do you have from when you were four and six? I mean, they remember who he was, but I don't think they really remember him.

I gave him this because I don't deserve any better. Three years in and I still don't know what to do with any of it. Not a clue. But last year I wouldn't have said it was okay to miss him and this year I am giving myself permission to do just that.

He snorts in his sleep just like I do.

Meet Bonham, a three month old Lhasa Apso/Bichon/Shih Tzu cross who weighs less than my big platform boots and sleeps more than Benjamin does, when he's home.

After Butterfield, the saga of The House that Needed a Dog returned with a vengeance, only I didn't have the heart to look for a dog and ignored it, just on principle. But Bonham came looking for me, and so we brought him home this afternoon and he fits in just like icing on cake.

Or maybe like peanut butter on Milk Bones.

(Bonham, for those not in the know, is for John Bonham, the late drummer for Led Zeppelin. I think that part will soften the surprise when Ben comes home since he doesn't know yet.)

Surprise, honey. Isn't he cute?

They'll be chanting GSP! GSP! by ten o'clock for sure.

It's one of those positively gorgeous days. It's lush outside, green and warm, and the air smells fresh thanks to the storms last week that washed away the rest of the grime that coats the city. We've cleaned up the branches and swept away the debris and noticed how much everything grew from the long drinks of Thursday as the rain never seemed to end. It was worth it to wake up to this. Yesterday was nice but the promise of today looms huge, blocking out everything else.

I have all kinds of plans, around a quarter of which will be accomplished, and the rest left to the wind.

I also have a little free time in my schedule for the next month at least, as I won't be running.

I will most likely switch to lifting weights instead. I kinda sorta totally broke a toe yesterday, smashing it head-on into a door frame while going into the kitchen. I stub my toes a lot in this house, there is some beautiful woodwork and the baseboards are all twelve-inch high works of art that extend two inches onto the surface of the floor as well. You have to give them space and I always seem to miss. I thought it was stubbed and I would be fine but walking for the rest of yesterday was tough and I still can't put weight on it today. It's turned a lovely black and purple and I will take a picture of it for you and post it so you can enjoy how wonderfully I bruise.

Like a newborn star as seen through the Hubble telescope.

So that's three, if you add in the fall on the steps two weeks ago and February's head trauma in the garage when I wiped out on the ice and knocked myself out cold on the floor.

I think my house is trying to kill me. All it needs really is to time opening the dryer door while I'm facing the furnace and it will be all over for me. Seriously. It's like Kill House, only my house is way nicer and my life far less cheesy. At least I hope so.

Snort.

In other news, it's Fight Night. Where my house fills up with testosterone and beer and then it foams out under the doors and over the window sills and you can hardly breathe for all the flexing muscles and shameless intent. I'm an odd girl, I love the UFC. Go Lesnar and Dalloway! Wooo!

Caffeine-free princess.

It's official.

I have no vices left.

Okay, maybe I have one. But even that has been removed at present.

I don't drink pop anymore. I don't smoke anymore. I never did drugs past the barest of experiences (Shhhh). I don't have a gambling habit. I don't eat too much. I don't have a shopping problem or a candy addiction (PJ, be quiet!). I drink a glass of wine or a cooler when so moved, like once a week or less and really, I'm about to enter middle age as the poster child for healthy living.

Which is funny, really. When Cole and I got our first apartment I happily lived on Kraft Dinner and Jack Daniels, and when we had a few dollars, I would have McDonald's for dinner. I extolled the virtues of being able to choose for myself and put my physical well-being on the back burner in favor of tipsily hitting the dance floor five nights a week and chasing the hangover with some deep fried food the next afternoon, or whenever it was that I would wake up. Heading in large groups to various cottages only meant we'd trade the dance floor for midnight swimming and the fried food would be replaced with delicious things grilled on the barbecue.

Life is different now. Jack Daniels is rarely welcome and Kraft Dinner causes gastric issues since I haven't really been able to handle dairy products in large quantities for years. Smoking gave me headaches and cost a staggering penny, and pop is fizzy and makes me have to pee all the time, and ask any of the guys, I pee enough. Christian says it's like having a perpetual potty-training child around, every place we go I scout for the nearest washroom, just in case. Whatever happened to my teenage aversion to icky public washrooms had to be hung up as I realized any place was better than holding it in.

I think I have veered off my point.

What the hell was it? Oh yes.

I quit coffee this morning.

Not really cold-turkey, over the past few weeks I've been tapering off slowly, down from more than 40 ounces a day. I cut out the afternoon cup first and staggered through days and days of narcoleptic moodiness. Then I began to drastically reduce the morning cup until I was down to 10 ounces and finding that I still had lots left in the late morning as I ignored the cup and went about my day.

This morning I didn't have any at all. It's 9:30 and I'm ticking along on my regularly scheduled Friday and I don't miss it. My father calls it liquid pesticide. It was never more than a crutch anyhow and the fact that my headaches and anxiousness have dissipated all together leads to me to believe I've done the right thing.

At least I hope it's the right thing.

(If you see me writhing on the sidewalk later clutching my head in agony, for heaven's sake run to the nearest Starbucks and save my life!!)

Now, about that last vice. I'm kidding. There is no Friday porn entry because as you can see, my husband is still AWOL. DAMMIT ALL TO HELL.

I will live, I guess. Caffeine-free, no less.