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Pharaoh ZoCher is deep in de Nile.
The surface is, apparently untroubled by the underbubble of impending-doom-ness. The mummified internal organs are experiencing the odd bit of turbulence, however. I am busying myself with overdue household chores due to Friday night's impending-Ganesh-ness.
If, any time soon, I hear the screams of fiction suits burning, I shall progress through the stages of a grief reaction at my own, grumpy pace. Change means Loss means Grief.
The great Elisabeth Kubler-Ross defined The 5 Stages of Grief (or the 5 Stages of Receiving Catastrophic News) as:
1. Denial Here I am. Normal life trundles on, checking in randomly and posting the odd bit of thread rot (not treasuring each barbelism and systematically pm'ing and saving the really good bits from the archive).
2. Anger Coming round the corner. "***** *********!", "******* ******!". Feet will be stamped. Linda Blair will be possessed by Pazuzu. Ganesh and I will have a huge argument about nothing at all. The cats will hide under the bed in the spare room, extremely irked. I will be going cold turkey, "Who needs this ****?"
3. Bargaining Upcoming Feature. "I'm sorry, please somebody barble with me. I apologise for being irritated by the Internet Radio boy's photo. I really miss the weeping Belfast schoolchild too. Just come back for a few weeks and I promise to be fitter, happier, and more productive. I Will Not Feed The Trolls. I will always apostrophise correctly. I will never, ever thread rot..."
4. Depression Week's time? The twilit world of the wandering Barbelite. No Barbelith, no tangential insights, no quizzes to establish which Ewok you are, neither fun nor cheese-related puns. No more taunting, sorry fantasising, about Captain Zoom, or the Bear, or [sob, sniff] Sax... What will Ganesh and I have to gossip about now?
5. Acceptance Month's time, maybe? "Ok, time to stop whining and adapt. The web is worldwide and wondrously promiscuous. Get back on that horse, Z, you wuss! Time to learn html or found a religious cult or to gouch on the couch in front cable tv. New city, new job, old boyfriend but sleeping in the same, new bed. Life goes on..."
But, then again, the Fat Lady may have a bad case of laryngitis... |
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