Then it wandered off into a setting that I finally recognized as the video game So You Want To Be A Hero* and just got weird.
That, however, is not the point of my post.
It is February 1st. One year ago today, in response to the continued dissolution of my marriage, I moved into my own apartment. I was 29, and it was the first time I had ever lived on my own.
It's kind of funny, but I don't recall the exact date the divorce was finalized--that was all just paperwork, and didn't really matter. I don't remember the date that I learned that yes, it was really and truly over (perhaps we could make a case that I had known for some time, and it was merely the final confirmation.) But I remember moving in on my own. That one actually mattered.
Still. It's been a year, and I haven't died or gone bankrupt. Got kicked bad, but got up again. Dangled a little farther over the abyss of madness than I'd like, but pulled myself up out again, with the help of quite a few friends and the miracles of modern chemistry. But I lived.
A buddy of mine gave me a very stern talking to about four months ago, during which he told me not to kick myself about moping over my marriage unless I was still doing it come February, and rather more importantly, not to get a tattoo until February, lest I wind up with something regrettable in permanent ink. (This was wisdom, I must admit--there were a few dark nights when I might have come back from the tattoo parlor with "ALL MEN SUCK" written in gothic script across my shoulderblades or something equally regrettable.)
Well, it's February. I have not moped about my marriage for some time, I have the phone number of a highly recommended tattoo artist, and I'm getting that damn kingfisher as soon as I figure out the design I want.
So, I made it. Life goes on.
*Which I played back when it was still called "Hero's Quest," goddamnit.