Mixed Blessings, or, Getting Up?

You have fallen. Ever since she took you to the metaphoric cleaners you have tumbled oh so very far from Grace. Every day, every conversation, just a little further down the spiral, for, I have heard it said, there is no ground floor in Hell.

And that anthropomorphic sky-father deity you place so much faith in? I've wanted to track that one down, slit him neck to nuts, fill the hole with wasps, sew it shut, and leave him with a good hard kick to the ribs in retribution for fucking with you so. That's the kind of friend I am.

You tell me you're leaving. There's an eye for the main chance in Arizona. I've been there; deserts are the other landscape, aside from mountains, that fascinate me. I tell you it's a mixed blessing; the warmer and drier climate may be kinder to your condition than that of Colorado. It's a chance to start afresh without the emotional shrapnel you leave here.

Bury the bodies, turn the page, and press on...

Mon ami, I know better than to lie and say it'll be okay. It's just going to be. It will be an adventure. A chance to turn it all around. It's that chance you and I have both been hoping for in differing degrees; the chance for you to get up.

Use this opportunity, or it won't be your deity whose belly gets stuffed with wasps, because that's just the kind of friend I am...