Why the fuck do I have to trim my fingernails again? It's just another goddamn reminder that I'm still alive and kicking, despite my wife's death. I never used to have an opinion about nail-trimming. It's bad enough that the world kept turning without her, does my body really have to keep aging?
If you can't tell, at present time I'm at a low point on the roller coaster of grief. Today is one of those days I'm questioning the wisdom of trying to make a blog about grief be funny. I want to scream, but the rest of my family is trying to sleep, so I'm gonna scream here, OK?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!
It's not quite what I want, but it'll have to do. That's the basic premise of grief: it's not what I want but it'll have to do. My choices are life with grief. That's all. Unless I want to get really dark and suicide-y. I don't think I would mind if I died. It would certainly ease up a lot of pressure, worry and responsibility. But I'm not interested in taking the initiative on that. I have to keep going, I guess. I have to keep trimming my nails. No matter how absurd it feels that they're even still growing.
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