Bonkie Dearest

One night, I admit I went a little Joan Crawford.

I came home dead tired from work and the hour's worth of rush hour traffic I now have to slog through five nights a week. As I walked through my empty house, the pictures of my EX and I that I had put up over the years started to mock me. Some were taken during vacations. Some were from our wedding. Those were exceptional. We had a great photographer who captured all these wonderful, candid moments. I never looked more beautiful in my whole life. We looked so damned happy with our arms wrapped around each other. Who were these people? And it hit me.

They don't exist anymore.

Next thing I knew, this primal scream of grief erupted from me. I couldn’t stop, I sounded like a wounded animal. Hell, I was a wounded animal. I yanked the pictures off the walls and shelves, took them into the garage, grabbed the biggest hammer I could find and proceeded to smash them into oblivion. I was in such an Alfred Hitchcock kind of frenzy that I brought the hammer back a little too far and actually hit myself in the head with the claw part. I felt like such an idiot. I cleaned up my mess - shards of glass were everywhere - and went back inside properly chagrined.