Things fall down. People look up.

And when it rains, it pours.

Type type tipp-it-ty tap type tap tipp-it-ty type... *read* Ugh. Backspace, backspace, backspace; delete.

It's unusual. I'm here, and I'm pulling punches. No, not literally; I'm not holding back anger. And I could hit, literally; got plenty of inantimate objects I could smack around; but no. It's just that in my opinion, when posting on one's personal space, blog, journal, whatever; one should deliver free expression. Even if it turns out to be a lie. It's in your own Goddamn head. Painting the description of the picture in my head is what it's about. Got it? Right.

So back to pulling punches. As it turns out, the painting of the description of the picture in my head looks a bit like a large mound of steaming poop. This is an attempt to express freely without inviting, "Come read what's in my head... it's poop!" Um, no.

Okay, so ride this roller-coaster with me. Woooo, he's up, Waaooohh, he's down.

Maybe it's not poop after all. I just wished it was because it's painful. In actuality, it's truly precise; detailed. I understand it perfectly. The part I played is accounted for. I'm responsible, as is she. And when this segment of our lives is observed from a different vantage point, the road behind will be one of growth, pain, love, understanding, and commitment. The children are happy, confident, well-balanced little people, and will continue to be through the transition. Plans are moving forward, and the process will be timely, amicable, patient. I'm sad. I'm scared. I'm happy. I'm anxious. She is leaving