I am mad, mad as hell, and if you were dropping acid on my forehead right now, I couldn't explain it. Is it taking Clint's things out of the house? I'm doing that gradually, and though it's painful, it hasn't made me want to break anything. If it weren't dark outside, I'd take a hammer to something and beat the living shit out of it right now. I should be happy. Tomorrow I drive to Savannah and will spend the night with Addie tomorrow night and attend Zona Rosa on Saturday. I'm even staying over until Sunday, so I can spend some time with my Wilmington Island family. Maybe I'm angry because I can spend the weekend. There's no Clint to rush home to, to stroke and pet and snuggle up against, to say how much me missed me and how much he loves me. Why in the name of God does this have to be so fucking hard? Even the good things turn sour. I read an article by and woman, Therese Rando, PH. D., who described grief as work, hard work, something one must actively pursue in order to resolve it in a healthy way. Well, Dr Rando, I'd like to know how I could possibly be working any harder at it. What am I to do? What am I doing wrong? Jesus. This is hell. And I hate it.