I might run around in my underwear next.

Before deciding to completely abandon ship and start the new blog, I hadn't been writing very often. Posts were few and far between, mostly because I couldn't handle the worried looks that I'd get from my mother. She was fine, business as usual, right up until her third cocktail. Then, with her face all scrunched up in scotch-induced concern, she'd say, "I wish you weren't so depressed." Which would be followed by: "Jon is an asshole." Mothers. Can't live with 'em... unless you're broke and getting divorced and have no other choice.

I'm not depressed. (Thanks, Prozac!) But, yes, I am sad. There hasn't been a day that's gone by without feeling that painful clutch in my heart. I miss him. Sometimes I think it's getting worse. According to a friend, this is totally normal and to be expected. Okay. Got it. But. When does it start to get better?

Despite all that, I'm looking forward to posting more often. I hate that I feel the need to leave the old digs behind in order to do so, but it is such a relief knowing that no one will read this. (No one I have to make eye contact with, anyway.) Maybe they will someday. That's fine. I don't plan to write anything that could offend my family or friends (not yet), but being here means an escape from the pitying looks, the concerned e-mails, the "we need to find you a man" pep talks (shudder).

And I'm glad I can post again more freely, 'cause as much as I wish none of this was happening, I'm going to want to remember. I'm going to want to look back one day and go, "Gosh, remember when I thought I'd never survive?" or "Geez, I was so melodramatic!" or "I can't believe I'm still living my my mother."

(If that last one comes true, I will kill myself. I'm not even kidding.)