After it all goes wrong.

Just for the hell of it and every so often it's too tempting to plunder Kiss & Blog because it currently tickles my neurons, I shall now outline the patented Lanius Post-Breakup Progression. Why it would be patented, the world may never know, though it does make for a nice conversation piece.

Stage one is shock. The fecal matter has hit the rotary impeller and the mind is still taking in the extent of the spatter. I am numb; as empty inside as a singularity in a crisp candy shell. Nothing really affects me. Normally spend the next one to twenty-four hours engaged in something mindless and non-interactive such as television.

Stage two is pain. The ice has melted, the shell has imploded, and I have discovered I am exsanguinating all over the floor like an ambulatory sprinkler system. My world retreats to a population of one and my pain eclipses all else. For up to five hours, I will be possessed of an obsession with writing bleak poetry and listening to the most depressing music I can dredge to harrow my soul. Not surprisingly, I am still not fit for any sort of human contact. Good friends and loved ones may occasionally bestir themselves to turn on lights to shuffle the roosting bats and/or poke me with sticks while I huddle in a corner.

Stage three is rage. Feeling sad pisses me off. The music line-up though still occasionally containing sad songs now is comprised to a vast extent by angry, bitter, vindictive music. Over the next few months I will have a white-hot passion for games that allow me full-rein to express every last nuance of bitter misanthropy rippling through my heart. Red meat is especially savory and craved.

Stage four is hate/vengeance. The searing heat of anger has fermented along with a rising dose of bitterness into a core of hate. How could she hurt me like that? How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let my guard down? The questions are endless and always edged, designed to wound. Rarely do they have useful answers. It's cozy and comfortable, so I remain here for a long while.

Stage five is bitterness. A great deal of self-examination occurs. I pick apart every aspect of the failed relationship, fitting the pieces back together until I feel I have as good an understanding of where and why things flew off the rails as I'm liable to get. I adjust. I am possessed of a black sense of humor regarding the late relationship.

Stage six is laying it to rest. The metaphorical corpse has been defiled, autopsied, weighed, and reduced. It is finally interred, leaving a hopefully bitter-sweet memory of a romance that was not to be. Usually I even manage, despite the maelstrom before, to keep on friendly/fond terms with my ex.