Let’s see how I am handling my grief:

• Dressing like a 14-year old let loose in Hot Topic with mom’s credit card? Check!
• Wearing enough eyeliner to keep Adam Lambert and Pete Wentz happy for a year? Check!
• Calling my mother then immediately regretting it when she started to talk for 15 minutes straight about “that dumb bitch” (long story) and rant about people who are depressed, not letting me get a word in edgewise? Check!
• Throwing diseases at my co-workers? Check!
• Listening to gangsta rap? Check!

.. I am slightly confused as to which of the five stages of grief this is, though:

Denial: This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening. I’m not even supposed to BE here today. This is not happening.

Anger: FUCK YOU I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME FUCK YOU I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME I’VE NEVER SEEN A MAN EAT SO MANY CHICKEN WINGS

Bargaining: I will give you this shiny new penny if you could go back in time and bring her here. I’ll even supply the flux capacitor for the DeLorean, okay?

Depression: pfft, like I care. They’re all a bunch of conformist assholes. Life is pain. Life is only pain. We’re all taught to believe in happy fairy tale endings, but there’s only blackness .. dark, depressing loneliness that eats at your soul.

Acceptance:  Dearly beloved we are gathered here today to get through this thing called .. life. Electric word, life: it means forever, and that’s a mighty long time but I’m here to tell you: there’s something else. The afterworld! A world of never ending happiness; you can always see the sun – day or night.

.. nope, nothing about eyeliner and American Idol. Figures – I don’t do most things in a clinically accepted way; why start now?

Seriously, though. I look ridiculous. My boots are friggin’ hot, but the rest of me looks really, really silly. Ed even tried to warn me of this before I left the house, but did I listen? Noooooo. I have to EXPRESS MYSELF, which apparently means dressing like a mall goth. Wicked.