For those of you who did not go to Rhinebeck, but are new to the Left-Behindbeck-Post-Trauma-Blog-Drama experience, let me offer you some words of advice, and consolation. The pain; it will pass.

It's actually a lot like a bad case of cramps. At first, the pain is uncomfortable, but manageable. As the intensity cranks up a bit, you crank up the denial. Oh, it's not that bad. You say.

Eventually, you cannot ignore the debilitating waves of agony, shredding, ripping and tearing away, at your innermost, delicate sensibilities. Finally, you take to the bed, and give in to the misery. Between rolling tides of torment, you learn to appreciate the sweetness of brief relief, and gather strength to brace against the next round.

Then, of course, there is the vomit.
And the rrhea.
And the bloating.
Of the soul.

Mercifully, you will pass out, from the pain. ::The pint of Jim Beam didn't hurt:: ::Either.::
You sleep the sleep of the dead.
And dream the dream of the fiberly downtrodden.

By morning, it's the same as it ever was.
With fewer comments.
Again.

Olive You, Too
I'd been saving this picture for my With Freuds Like You... series. But tonight, for some reason, I was shaken, not stirred, to share.



Na-Na boo boo.

P.S. Thanks to the members of my special oracle for the testical encouragement, in comments.