Proceed to the end of the beginning of the New Age of Me. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
I'm sober now, and I have this need to sort through a number of "truths," so that later on, when the next dark day comes (as it surely will), I can look at this and try a little harder not to lose my shit. For instance, on the one hand, I seem to be a very good judge of people, but on the other, I have an astounding talent for befriending and trusting wolves in sheeps' clothing, finks, liars, weasels, stealth psychopaths, and pond scum. You know who you are, and you know who you aren't. Or maybe you don't, but it's not my problem anymore.
Sometimes, as Thomas Covenant reminded us, infections have to be cut out. Or, as Oatsie Mangehand would say, "It's only the next thing, it's not the last thing. Let's get through this, fellow."
For example. Somehow, no matter how many times you find yourself frelled up the ass by carelessly accumulated falsehoods masquerading as longtime friendships, cynicism and isolationism are still cop outs.
I could go on and on and on and the maudlin display might never end. But my head is killing me. And I really do have to write today; Spooky has to deal with eBay, tend to the grouchy, diabetic cat, feed the hamster, clean the house, fix the toilet, ad infinitum, but I have to write. Grateful thanks to those who helped us through yesterday and will help us through today and tomorrow. Now...where's my pointy stick? Move along. There's nothing here to see.