Someone famous once decided that there were a set number of stages of death that we go through. There’s anger, rejection, acceptance, and a few others. But I’ve recently discovered a new one. It’s stage wherein you grab the dearly departed and pound them on the coffee table until their guts spill out over the living room carpet.
I have recently suffered the death of a loved one. The other morning I came downstairs to do some writing and my trusty iBook wouldn’t wake up. I poked and prodded and then realization washed over me like the sticky contents of a heart-shaped whirlpool tub at a swingers motel. It was dead.
Maybe I knew it was coming. Only a week earlier I had burned a backup of my files, and the night before it died I emailed a copy of a recently completed novel to myself. Perhaps the stench of death was already in the air at the time.
I dunno. I do know that my postings here will be limited for a while. I think you’ll be able to survive without me. Most of the world manages to.