I last saw her in the dark morning hours in our apartment Monday morning. She could've been anyone, far as my eyes could discern. She was a virtual shroud of opaque tones. The nose and hands, however, knew better. They told me clearly that this was my beloved wife in her granny undies and shredded sleep shirt, kissing me goodbye as she always did when I left for work at the butt-crack of dawn. Except, this time, it was a for-real goodbye kiss. She was leaving on a jet plane (thank you John Denver) later that same day, going off to visit her father (and, to a seriously lesser extent, her step-mom) in Idaho. As to what adventures she endured before leaving Sacramento, I don't exactly know. The laundry was done and the bed was made. She had been productive for my sake, the sweet cherry. I got a few text messages from her and even a phone call before she flew in a blue plane (to hide her amongst the sky) to Northern territories. I came home and sat around. Her absence filled the rooms; all of them. Even the bathroom, for Christ's sake. I had no refuge. I watched "The Simpsons" latest DVD release. I played "Outlaw Golf" like the addict I am (I hate golf; funny how that works, huh? I hate killing nightmarish monsters, too, but I do it in Video Game Land). I ate terrible foods I scrounged up from my nearly empty refrigerator; dinner consisted of the following: cereal, yogurt, potato chips, and turkey pepperoni chased by a glass of juice and a half bottle of water. I can attest that my stomach, at the very least, will clearly announce its desire for my wife to return. I, on the other hand, will pretend all is well. I almost fell asleep on the couch, but instead managed to brush my teeth (what the hell for? I ask you) and slip into my big, spacious, empty fucking bed to fall into a soundless, boring nightscape. Thank you, Mr. Sandman, for the droll dreams, you ass! Day one, however, is done. Where Monday had the chore of my vocation to fill the hours (ah redundancy), the remaining days will suffer from a prevailing sense of "What-The-Fuck-Am-I-Going-To-Do-Today", all day, every day, for three days. It's something I've been wanting for some time, amazingly. There are things I want to do, and I know I'll do it (what the fuck else will I do otherwise? go nuts?), but the enormity of the day's length is really starting to hit me. An hour is pretty fucking long, and the days got, like, a dozen or so of them! That's nuts! Well, whatever... I'm off to rearrange the closets. Yes, you heard me right. Pray for me. 