Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress. (Vol. 2 - The Automated Phone System Stared Into My Soul, And I Almost Went Supernova)

Alright, you magnificent, barely-restrained perpetrators of internal carnage. Welcome back to the weekly goddamn support group for people whose primary survival strategy is, on most days, simply not committing a felony. If you’re new here, grab a bottle of something that burns and catch the fuck up. This is Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress. – the only place on the internet where your homicidal fantasies about the people who spew platitudes are not just understood, but quietly applauded as a healthy fucking coping mechanism.

Last week, we set the stage. We acknowledged the unholy trinity that conspires to turn your grief-ravaged existence into a constant, high-stakes game of “Don’t Snap.” You’ve got Grief Brain, your internal, chaos-loving saboteur. You’ve got the Neverending Parade of Bullshit Advice, the verbal diarrhea of the well-meaning but utterly clueless. And you’ve got the general, infuriating presence of Annoying Humans, whose mere existence can feel like a personal fucking affront to your shattered soul.

So, how did your week go? Did you manage to navigate the treacherous waters of human interaction without actually resorting to physical violence? Did you successfully deploy the “Bless Your Heart” deflection? Did your internal scream room get a good workout? If you’re reading this and you’re not currently doing so from a holding cell, I call that a goddamn win.

This week, we’re diving into a specific, often recurring, scenario in this relentless shitshow. A scenario so common, so infuriating, so utterly predictable, it deserves its own goddamn chapter in the “Fuck You, Grief” encyclopedia.

We’re plunging into a very specific, very modern circle of hell. A place where the already malfunctioning, chaos-inducing fuckery of Grief Brain collides, with spectacular, rage-inducing results, with one of the most soulless, infuriating inventions of mankind: The Automated Fucking Phone System.

If you haven’t yet had the distinct pleasure of trying to navigate a labyrinthine phone tree while your brain is operating with the processing power of a wet goddamn sock, then you haven’t truly lived in the messy middle of grief. It’s an experience so profoundly maddening, so exquisitely designed to push you to the brink of a full-blown psychotic break, it almost feels deliberate. Like the universe itself designed it as a personalized torture chamber for the grieving.

So, grab your emotional support bottle of rage-whiskey, find a semi-stable corner of your own personal wreckage to curl up in, and let’s get down to it.

---

Dear Diary,

Today, the universe, in its infinite wisdom and apparently bottomless capacity for soul-crushing, bureaucratic torture, decided to test the ragged, frayed edges of my sanity by forcing me to interact with an Automated Phone System.

Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. That soulless, disembodied voice, a demonic blend of condescending cheerfulness and passive-aggressive digital judgment, that stands as the gatekeeper between you and the one goddamn human being who might, just might, be able to solve the trivial but suddenly life-or-death problem you’re facing.

Now, on a good day, back in the “Before Times” when my soul wasn’t a smoldering crater of despair, these systems were merely infuriating. A minor inconvenience designed by Satan’s own IT department to make you question your life choices.

But now? Now, with a Grief Brain that functions with the approximate processing power of a wet potato and an emotional state that oscillates between volcanic rage and catatonic numbness? Interacting with an automated phone system is not just an annoyance. It is a full-blown existential gladiator match. It is a battle for the very remnants of your will to live.

The mission, should I choose to accept it (and I didn’t, but the goddamn cable bill was threatening collections, so my hand was forced), was simple: call the cable company to dispute a charge for a premium movie package I am 99% sure Patrick, my magnificent, late, and apparently cinematically adventurous asshole, signed us up for in a fit of late-night boredom before he had the audacity to fucking die.

Simple, right? HA.

---

ROUND 1: THE VOICE OF UNREASON

“Thank you for calling Cable-pocalypse, where your satisfaction is our priority! Please listen carefully, as our menu options have recently changed to better fuck with your day.”

The voice. That chipper, soulless, synthesized female voice. Let’s call her Digital Brenda. Digital Brenda has no idea that my satisfaction levels are currently hovering somewhere between “root canal without anesthesia” and “eternally damned.” She speaks with a clarity and confidence that my grief-ravaged brain can only dream of.

“To continue in English, press one. Para continuar en Español, oprima dos.”

My hand, shaking slightly because my nervous system is permanently set to “imminent tiger attack,” fumbles for the keypad. I press one. I think. Grief Brain, in its infinite wisdom, makes me second-guess this simple action. Did I press one? Did I accidentally press seven, which will likely connect me to a interdimensional portal of screaming demons? I stare at the phone, my heart starting to do that familiar, frantic tap-dance against my ribs.

---

ROUND 2: THE LABYRINTH OF IRRELEVANT OPTIONS

“Great! Let’s get you to the right place. Are you calling about your television, internet, or home phone service?”

Uh. All of it? None of it? I’m calling about a charge on a bill that feels like a message from a ghost, a ghost who apparently had a deep and abiding need to watch every goddamn movie starring Sylvester Stallone before he departed this mortal coil. There is no option for “My Fiancé Died and Left Me a Bill That Feels Like a Final, Asshole Fucking Joke From the Great Beyond.”

“If you’d like to hear our latest offers, press one. To add a new service, press two. For billing inquiries, press three.”

Three. Okay. I can do this. I press three. My finger hovers, a tremor of uncertainty running through my hand. Did I press three? Or did I press eight, which is probably the direct line to reporting a rogue satellite crashing into your backyard? The line between reality and absurd catastrophe feels very thin these days.

---

ROUND 3: THE GREAT DATA HEIST (MY BRAIN VS. THEIR SYSTEM)

“Excellent! For faster service, please enter the 16-digit account number found on the top right corner of your bill.”

The bill. Right. The bill. Which is currently buried under a pile of other ominous-looking envelopes that I’ve affectionately dubbed “Mount Fuck-This-Shit.” I put Digital Brenda on speakerphone, the chipper hold music–a jaunty, soulless jazz flute monstrosity–now mocking my entire existence. I start digging through the paper avalanche, my hands shaking, my vision starting to blur with the familiar sting of rage-tears.

I find it. The bill. A crumpled testament to my failure to manage practicalities. And the account number. Sixteen digits. Staring at me like a goddamn line of ancient, indecipherable runes.

Grief Brain kicks into high gear. I stare at the numbers. 7… 4… 1… I type them in. 7… 4… 1… I look back at the bill. Was it a 1? Or a 7? The numbers start to swim, to mock me. They rearrange themselves. They dance a taunting little jig on the page. My brain, which used to be capable of remembering complex legal arguments or the lyrics to every single goddamn Bob Seger song, cannot currently retain a three-digit sequence for more than two seconds.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please enter your 16-digit account number now.” Digital Brenda’s voice is still cheerful, but now it has an undercurrent of digital disappointment. She’s judging my cognitive decline. I just know it.

I try again. Fumble. Swear under my breath. My thumb hits the wrong key.

“I’m sorry, that number doesn’t seem to be correct.”

FUCK YOU, DIGITAL BRENDA.

My internal scream room is now a full-blown riot. Chairs are being thrown. Fires are being set. My mental effigy of Digital Brenda is being drawn and quartered by tiny, rage-fueled demons.

“Would you like to try again?” she asks, with the condescending patience of a kindergarten teacher talking to a particularly dim-witted student who just ate a fistful of paste.

---

ROUND 4: THE VOICE RECOGNITION SHOWDOWN

Giving up on the numerical Everest, I wait. The jazz flute mocks my soul.

“Alright! To get you to the right place, please say, in a few words, what you’re calling about. For example, say ‘Pay my bill’ or ‘Technical support’.”

This is it. A chance. A chance to use words. My words might be broken, my thoughts might be scattered, but they are all I have.

I take a deep, ragged breath. “Billing dispute,” I say, my voice cracking with a mixture of grief and pure, unadulterated fury.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that. Did you say… ‘Pilling the cute’?”

What? Pilling the cute? What the actual fuck, Digital Brenda? Did my grief-soaked voice just get translated into some bizarre, nonsensical command involving sedating adorable animals?

“If this is correct, say ‘Yes’. If not, say ‘Go back’.”

“GO. FUCKING. BACK.” I don’t scream it. But oh, the restraint. The sheer, monumental, Atlas-level restraint it takes not to hurl my phone against the wall and watch it shatter into a million satisfying pieces.

“Okay! Please say, in a few words, what you’re calling about.”

I try again, enunciating each word like I’m talking to a tourist who doesn’t speak the language and is also possibly deaf. “BILL. ING. DIS. PUTE.”

“Okay! Getting you to someone who can help with… ‘Killing the Snoot’.”

Killing the snoot. She thinks I want to kill a snoot. At this point, I’m not entirely sure I don’t. I don’t know what a snoot is, but if it’s related to Digital Brenda, its days are fucking numbered.

---

ROUND 5: THE SURRENDER

I’m done. I can’t. The combination of my malfunctioning Grief Brain and this soulless, idiotic, Kafkaesque phone maze has broken me. The rage has subsided, replaced by a wave of utter, profound, soul-crushing despair.

The tears start. Not the violent, convulsive sobs of a fresh grief wave. The quiet, hopeless tears of sheer fucking exhaustion. They just roll down my face, silent testaments to my defeat.

I’m sitting on the floor, surrounded by the paper ruins of my adult responsibilities, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to that goddamn jazz flute, and I just… cry. I cry for the absurdity of it all. I cry for the monumental effort it takes just to do the simplest fucking things. I cry for the loss of my cognitive function, for the sharp, capable mind that grief has turned into a bowl of mush.

And most of all, I cry for him. For Patrick. Because if he were here, this whole goddamn ordeal would have been a shared experience. He would have been right here beside me, probably yelling at the phone with more creative profanity than I could ever dream of. He would have found the dark, twisted humor in “Pilling the cute” and “Killing the snoot.” He would have turned this infuriating, soul-sucking experience into a story, an anecdote, another chapter in our shared history of “us against the world’s relentless bullshit.” He would have seen me starting to spiral, and he would have lanced the boil of my frustration with a sharp, sarcastic, perfectly timed dickhead remark that would have made me laugh through the goddamn tears.

His absence, in that moment, wasn’t just a quiet ache. It was a screaming void, amplified by the soulless cheer of Digital Brenda and her goddamn jazz flute.

I finally hang up. The silence that follows is both a relief and a new kind of agony. I didn’t solve the problem. The bill is still there. The charge is still undisputed. But I survived the encounter. I didn’t throw the phone. I didn’t have a complete nervous breakdown that required sedation. And most importantly, I didn’t somehow track down the physical location of Cable-pocalypse’s server farm and set it on fire.

Dear Diary, Today, I wrestled with a demon named Automated Phone System. It stared into the abyss of my Grief Brain and found me wanting. It tried to make me kill a snoot. It taunted me with jazz flute. I cried. I swore. I felt the familiar, hot sting of rage and the cold, heavy blanket of despair.

But I didn’t commit murder. Not even of the digital, synthesized, Brenda-flavored variety.

Progress. Fucking progress.
Now, where did I put that whiskey?

CASSIE MARIE | AUTHOR

Alright, you magnificent, barely-restrained perpetrators of internal carnage. Welcome back to the weekly goddamn support group for people whose primary survival strategy is, on most days, simply not committing a felony. If you’re new here, grab a bottle of something that burns and catch the fuck up. This is Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress. – the only place on the internet where your homicidal fantasies about the people who spew platitudes are not just understood, but quietly applauded as a healthy fucking coping mechanism.

Last week, we set the stage. We acknowledged the unholy trinity that conspires to turn your grief-ravaged existence into a constant, high-stakes game of "Don't Snap." You’ve got Grief Brain, your internal, chaos-loving saboteur. You've got the Neverending Parade of Bullshit Advice, the verbal diarrhea of the well-meaning but utterly clueless. And you've got the general, infuriating presence of Annoying Humans, whose mere existence can feel like a personal fucking affront to your shattered soul.

So, how did your week go? Did you manage to navigate the treacherous waters of human interaction without actually resorting to physical violence? Did you successfully deploy the "Bless Your Heart" deflection? Did your internal scream room get a good workout? If you’re reading this and you’re not currently doing so from a holding cell, I call that a goddamn win.

This week, we’re diving into a specific, often recurring, scenario in this relentless shitshow. A scenario so common, so infuriating, so utterly predictable, it deserves its own goddamn chapter in the "Fuck You, Grief" encyclopedia.

We’re plunging into a very specific, very modern circle of hell. A place where the already malfunctioning, chaos-inducing fuckery of Grief Brain collides, with spectacular, rage-inducing results, with one of the most soulless, infuriating inventions of mankind: The Automated Fucking Phone System.

If you haven’t yet had the distinct pleasure of trying to navigate a labyrinthine phone tree while your brain is operating with the processing power of a wet goddamn sock, then you haven’t truly lived in the messy middle of grief. It’s an experience so profoundly maddening, so exquisitely designed to push you to the brink of a full-blown psychotic break, it almost feels deliberate. Like the universe itself designed it as a personalized torture chamber for the grieving.

So, grab your emotional support bottle of rage-whiskey, find a semi-stable corner of your own personal wreckage to curl up in, and let's get down to it.

Dear Diary,

Today, the universe, in its infinite wisdom and apparently bottomless capacity for soul-crushing, bureaucratic torture, decided to test the ragged, frayed edges of my sanity by forcing me to interact with an Automated Phone System.

Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. That soulless, disembodied voice, a demonic blend of condescending cheerfulness and passive-aggressive digital judgment, that stands as the gatekeeper between you and the one goddamn human being who might, just might, be able to solve the trivial but suddenly life-or-death problem you’re facing.

Now, on a good day, back in the "Before Times" when my soul wasn't a smoldering crater of despair, these systems were merely infuriating. A minor inconvenience designed by Satan's own IT department to make you question your life choices.

But now? Now, with a Grief Brain that functions with the approximate processing power of a wet potato and an emotional state that oscillates between volcanic rage and catatonic numbness? Interacting with an automated phone system is not just an annoyance. It is a full-blown existential gladiator match. It is a battle for the very remnants of your will to live.

The mission, should I choose to accept it (and I didn't, but the goddamn cable bill was threatening collections, so my hand was forced), was simple: call the cable company to dispute a charge for a premium movie package I am 99% sure Patrick, my magnificent, late, and apparently cinematically adventurous asshole, signed us up for in a fit of late-night boredom before he had the audacity to fucking die.

Simple, right? HA.

ROUND 1: THE VOICE OF UNREASON

"Thank you for calling Cable-pocalypse, where your satisfaction is our priority! Please listen carefully, as our menu options have recently changed to better fuck with your day."

The voice. That chipper, soulless, synthesized female voice. Let’s call her Digital Brenda. Digital Brenda has no idea that my satisfaction levels are currently hovering somewhere between "root canal without anesthesia" and "eternally damned." She speaks with a clarity and confidence that my grief-ravaged brain can only dream of.

"To continue in English, press one. Para continuar en Español, oprima dos."

My hand, shaking slightly because my nervous system is permanently set to "imminent tiger attack," fumbles for the keypad. I press one. I think. Grief Brain, in its infinite wisdom, makes me second-guess this simple action. Did I press one? Did I accidentally press seven, which will likely connect me to a interdimensional portal of screaming demons? I stare at the phone, my heart starting to do that familiar, frantic tap-dance against my ribs.

ROUND 2: THE LABYRINTH OF IRRELEVANT OPTIONS

"Great! Let’s get you to the right place. Are you calling about your television, internet, or home phone service?"

Uh. All of it? None of it? I’m calling about a charge on a bill that feels like a message from a ghost, a ghost who apparently had a deep and abiding need to watch every goddamn movie starring Sylvester Stallone before he departed this mortal coil. There is no option for "My Fiancé Died and Left Me a Bill That Feels Like a Final, Asshole Fucking Joke From the Great Beyond."

"If you’d like to hear our latest offers, press one. To add a new service, press two. For billing inquiries, press three."

Three. Okay. I can do this. I press three. My finger hovers, a tremor of uncertainty running through my hand. Did I press three? Or did I press eight, which is probably the direct line to reporting a rogue satellite crashing into your backyard? The line between reality and absurd catastrophe feels very thin these days.

ROUND 3: THE GREAT DATA HEIST (MY BRAIN VS. THEIR SYSTEM)

"Excellent! For faster service, please enter the 16-digit account number found on the top right corner of your bill."

The bill. Right. The bill. Which is currently buried under a pile of other ominous-looking envelopes that I’ve affectionately dubbed "Mount Fuck-This-Shit." I put Digital Brenda on speakerphone, the chipper hold music–a jaunty, soulless jazz flute monstrosity–now mocking my entire existence. I start digging through the paper avalanche, my hands shaking, my vision starting to blur with the familiar sting of rage-tears.

I find it. The bill. A crumpled testament to my failure to manage practicalities. And the account number. Sixteen digits. Staring at me like a goddamn line of ancient, indecipherable runes.

Grief Brain kicks into high gear. I stare at the numbers. 7… 4… 1… I type them in. 7… 4… 1… I look back at the bill. Was it a 1? Or a 7? The numbers start to swim, to mock me. They rearrange themselves. They dance a taunting little jig on the page. My brain, which used to be capable of remembering complex legal arguments or the lyrics to every single goddamn Bob Seger song, cannot currently retain a three-digit sequence for more than two seconds.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Please enter your 16-digit account number now." Digital Brenda’s voice is still cheerful, but now it has an undercurrent of digital disappointment. She’s judging my cognitive decline. I just know it.

I try again. Fumble. Swear under my breath. My thumb hits the wrong key.

"I’m sorry, that number doesn't seem to be correct."

FUCK YOU, DIGITAL BRENDA.

My internal scream room is now a full-blown riot. Chairs are being thrown. Fires are being set. My mental effigy of Digital Brenda is being drawn and quartered by tiny, rage-fueled demons.

"Would you like to try again?" she asks, with the condescending patience of a kindergarten teacher talking to a particularly dim-witted student who just ate a fistful of paste.

ROUND 4: THE VOICE RECOGNITION SHOWDOWN

Giving up on the numerical Everest, I wait. The jazz flute mocks my soul.

"Alright! To get you to the right place, please say, in a few words, what you’re calling about. For example, say ‘Pay my bill’ or ‘Technical support’."

This is it. A chance. A chance to use words. My words might be broken, my thoughts might be scattered, but they are all I have.

I take a deep, ragged breath. "Billing dispute," I say, my voice cracking with a mixture of grief and pure, unadulterated fury.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that. Did you say… ‘Pilling the cute’?"

What? Pilling the cute? What the actual fuck, Digital Brenda? Did my grief-soaked voice just get translated into some bizarre, nonsensical command involving sedating adorable animals?

"If this is correct, say ‘Yes’. If not, say ‘Go back’."

"GO. FUCKING. BACK." I don't scream it. But oh, the restraint. The sheer, monumental, Atlas-level restraint it takes not to hurl my phone against the wall and watch it shatter into a million satisfying pieces.

"Okay! Please say, in a few words, what you’re calling about."

I try again, enunciating each word like I’m talking to a tourist who doesn't speak the language and is also possibly deaf. "BILL. ING. DIS. PUTE."

"Okay! Getting you to someone who can help with… ‘Killing the Snoot’."

Killing the snoot. She thinks I want to kill a snoot. At this point, I’m not entirely sure I don't. I don’t know what a snoot is, but if it’s related to Digital Brenda, its days are fucking numbered.

ROUND 5: THE SURRENDER

I’m done. I can’t. The combination of my malfunctioning Grief Brain and this soulless, idiotic, Kafkaesque phone maze has broken me. The rage has subsided, replaced by a wave of utter, profound, soul-crushing despair.

The tears start. Not the violent, convulsive sobs of a fresh grief wave. The quiet, hopeless tears of sheer fucking exhaustion. They just roll down my face, silent testaments to my defeat.

I’m sitting on the floor, surrounded by the paper ruins of my adult responsibilities, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to that goddamn jazz flute, and I just… cry. I cry for the absurdity of it all. I cry for the monumental effort it takes just to do the simplest fucking things. I cry for the loss of my cognitive function, for the sharp, capable mind that grief has turned into a bowl of mush.

And most of all, I cry for him. For Patrick. Because if he were here, this whole goddamn ordeal would have been a shared experience. He would have been right here beside me, probably yelling at the phone with more creative profanity than I could ever dream of. He would have found the dark, twisted humor in "Pilling the cute" and "Killing the snoot." He would have turned this infuriating, soul-sucking experience into a story, an anecdote, another chapter in our shared history of "us against the world’s relentless bullshit." He would have seen me starting to spiral, and he would have lanced the boil of my frustration with a sharp, sarcastic, perfectly timed dickhead remark that would have made me laugh through the goddamn tears.

His absence, in that moment, wasn't just a quiet ache. It was a screaming void, amplified by the soulless cheer of Digital Brenda and her goddamn jazz flute.

I finally hang up. The silence that follows is both a relief and a new kind of agony. I didn't solve the problem. The bill is still there. The charge is still undisputed. But I survived the encounter. I didn’t throw the phone. I didn’t have a complete nervous breakdown that required sedation. And most importantly, I didn't somehow track down the physical location of Cable-pocalypse's server farm and set it on fire.

Dear Diary, Today, I wrestled with a demon named Automated Phone System. It stared into the abyss of my Grief Brain and found me wanting. It tried to make me kill a snoot. It taunted me with jazz flute. I cried. I swore. I felt the familiar, hot sting of rage and the cold, heavy blanket of despair.

But I didn't commit murder. Not even of the digital, synthesized, Brenda-flavored variety.

Progress. Fucking progress.
Now, where did I put that whiskey?

HOLY SH*T THEY'RE GONE, no bullshit grief, survival guide, uncensored grief, unfiltered grief

https://cassandracrossno.com/dear-diary-two/

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Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress. (Vol. 1 – Welcome to the Shitshow)

Alright, you beautiful, twitchy-eyed, barely-holding-it-together, magnificent, simmering cauldrons of barely contained rage and exhaustion. Welcome to the inaugural goddamn entry of what I predict will be a long, rambling, and frequently homicidal series of internal monologues I’ve graciously decided to unleash upon the unsuspecting (or perhaps, eagerly awaiting) internet. This is the first goddamn installment of "My Life is a Dumpster Fire, But At Least I Haven't Snapped... Yet." For those of you just joining the shitshow, I’m your profoundly unqualified, foul-mouthed guide through the glorious, gut-wrenching, often homicidal landscape of grief. Let's file this under "Shit I Never Thought I'd Be Writing About, But Here We Fucking Are." Pull up a goddamn chair, pour yourself something that burns with the righteous fury of a thousand wronged souls–maybe that rotgut whiskey you’ve been saving for a special occasion, and trust me, this is it–and let's have a little heart-to-fucking-heart. 

If you’ve found your way into my particular corner of the internet, probably drawn by the scent of stale coffee, existential dread, and the faint, lingering aroma of bullshit being set aflame or you’ve somehow stumbled here after clawing your way through the literary equivalent of a Category 5 soul-fucking, otherwise known as my book, HOLY SH*T, THEY’RE GONE or are waiting for its delightful sequel HOLY SH*T, I’M STILL HERE, then you already know the score. You know I don’t do gentle. You know I don’t do fucking platitudes. I do the kind of brutal honesty that makes therapists clutch their pearls and polite society shit its collective pants. I speak the language of shattered souls, of frayed nerve endings, of the internal monologue that sounds suspiciously like a Quentin Tarantino script directed by a particularly pissed-off badger. You know I call bullshit on the bullshit, usually at the top of my goddamn lungs.

For those of you airdropped into this particular circle of hell without prior warning, a brief recap: My life exploded. The love of my life, Patrick – my loud, irreverent, irreplaceable chaos demon – checked out. Unexpectedly. Permanently. Left a Patrick-shaped hole in the universe and a Cassie-shaped wreck sifting through the goddamn ashes. These books, these articles, this whole goddamn outpouring of verbal shrapnel? It’s me, trying to make sense of the senseless, trying to navigate the aftermath, and mostly, trying to keep from actually, literally, losing my fucking mind.

Which brings us to the crux of today’s goddamn sermon, the mantra of the perpetually bereaved, the silent scream of the soul hanging on by a thread thinner than cheap fucking dental floss:

Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress. The entry that, if anyone else read it, would probably get us a one-way ticket to a padded room with a complimentary Thorazine drip.

And if you just snorted your coffee, or whatever your particular brand of poison is with a violent jolt of horrified recognition, then welcome. You’re my people. You understand that in the grand, cosmic shitshow of navigating profound grief while simultaneously coexisting with the general populace, sometimes the single greatest achievement of your day, the shining beacon of your self-control, the absolute pinnacle of your emotional fucking maturity, is simply… not ending up on the evening news in a very unflattering orange jumpsuit.

This isn’t about trivializing murder. Or the soul-crushing agony of grief. Let’s get that straight. Trust me, I live in that goddamn warzone every single day, just like you. Patrick’s absence is a constant, screaming void in my existence. The pain is real. The longing is relentless. The ghosts are my goddamn roommates. This is about acknowledging, with a raw, savage, often darkly hilarious honesty, the monumental fucking effort it takes to remain a (mostly) law-abiding citizen when your brain is a soup of traumatized neurons, your heart is a gaping, bleeding wound, and the world outside seems determined to poke at that wound with a rusty, shit-covered stick. It's a testament to a level of self-restraint Pavlov himself would’ve jizzed his pants over.

There are days. Days when the sheer, overwhelming tide of human stupidity, coupled with the persistent throb of your own internal devastation, creates a perfect storm of "I am this close to going full-blown medieval on someone's ass." Days when maintaining a socially acceptable façade requires the acting skills of Meryl Streep after a three-day meth binge and the patience of a goddamn saint who’s been repeatedly kicked in the spiritual testicles. 

These days, the internal dialogue isn't just about missing your person. It's about calculating, with terrifying precision, the minimum prison sentence for justifiable homicide. It's about envisioning, in vivid, technicolor detail, the look on their face as you unleash a torrent of profanity so inventive it would make a drill sergeant blush. It's about fantasizing about a world where duct tape is a socially acceptable form of communication. On those days, the only thing that gets you through is the quiet, internal mantra: "Do not commit felonious assault. Do not commit felonious assault. They are not worth the prison food. Possibly."

What exactly pushes us to the brink where "not committing murder" becomes a legitimate, measurable daily achievement? It’s usually a delightful cocktail, shaken (violently) and not stirred. 

Let’s dissect the Mount Rushmore of "Reasons I Might Actually End Up on a True Crime Podcast," shall we? The unholy trinity that conspires, with almost cosmic precision, to push you to the brink of felonious goddamn assault.

Let’s start with Grief Brain, that internal saboteur, that glorious malfunction of cognitive processing that turns simple tasks into Olympian feats of incompetence.

Ah, Grief Brain. That glorious, unpredictable, utterly infuriating neurological shitshow. Remember in the early days, when it felt like someone had replaced your cerebrum with a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal? Good news! In the long game, it doesn’t always feel like oatmeal. Sometimes it feels like a bag of angry, caffeinated squirrels fighting a badger in a wind tunnel. Progress, right?

Today, for instance, Grief Brain decided that the ideal storage location for my car keys was nestled lovingly inside a bag of week-old spinach in the back of the fridge. Why? FUCK IF I KNOW. It took me forty-five minutes, three near-aneurysms, and a string of profanities that would anoint me Pope in certain circles, to locate them. During this frantic search, I also accused the dog of grand larceny, momentarily forgot my own middle name, and seriously contemplated just setting the entire goddamn apartment on fire as a simpler solution.

The urge to just lie down on the kitchen floor and weep amongst the dust bunnies and the echoes of Patrick’s laughter when he’d watch me lose my shit over similar (though usually less severe) bouts of forgetfulness? It was monumental. But I didn’t. I found the keys. I used language that would make a sailor blush. And I didn't burn anything down (mostly because I couldn't find the fucking matches, another brilliant Grief Brain disappearing act).

Diary Entry: Keys retrieved from spinach purgatory. Property damage averted. Dog remains a suspicious character but is currently uncharged. Progress.

You will walk into rooms with the unshakeable conviction of a prophet receiving divine revelation, only to arrive and stare blankly at a houseplant, your mind wiped completely fucking clean. You’ll find your phone in the vegetable crisper, your car keys nestled amongst the decorative soaps gifted to you (the ones that smell like a Victorian funeral parlor), and your glasses perched precariously on the dog.

And the conversations? Oh, the conversations are a goddamn adventure. You’ll start a sentence with profound insight and end it trailing off into a story about that one time you saw a pigeon wearing a tiny hat. Your ability to recall names, dates, or whether you put on pants this morning will hover somewhere between "sketchy" and "non-existent." Your filter? That polite societal mechanism that usually stops you from screaming "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!" at the top of your lungs in polite company? Yeah, Grief Brain ate that for breakfast, probably with a side of your short-term memory.

This internal saboteur isn't just making you forgetful; it's making you reactive. That carefully constructed wall of composure you try to maintain? Grief Brain is constantly chucking metaphorical Molotov cocktails at it. One minute you’re "fine," the next, you're contemplating the socio-economic implications of a fly buzzing too close to your head with the intensity of a goddamn rocket scientist on a deadline. The urge to respond to everyday annoyances with a level of fury usually reserved for declarations of war is… strong. And frequent.

Now, imagine unleashing this magnificent mess upon an unsuspecting public.

Finally, armed with my hard-won keys and a brain that felt like it was running on two AA batteries and a vague memory of caffeine, I ventured into the world. Which brings us to offender number two: Bullshit Advice, delivered with the unflinching confidence of those who have never truly had their souls put through a fucking woodchipper.

Today’s Gold Star Asshole was Brenda from the real estate company. Brenda, with her perfectly coiffed hair, her serene smile, and her astonishing inability to read a goddamn room, decided this was the perfect moment to inquire about my "healing journey." I was there to dispute a late fee, a fee incurred because Grief Brain, in its infinite wisdom, had convinced me that paying the rent was less pressing than reorganizing Patrick’s Led Zeppelin collection by lyrical angst level.

"You know, Cassandra," Brenda began, her voice dripping with the kind of syrupy concern that makes your teeth ache, "they say that when God closes a door, He opens a window."

My internal monologue, which is usually pretty fucking loud anyway, went into overdrive. A window, Brenda? A FUCKING WINDOW? The love of my life, the man who was my entire goddamn structural support system, is GONE. That’s not a door closing, Brenda. That’s a fucking category 5 hurricane leveling the entire goddamn house, the neighborhood, and a significant portion of the Four State area! And you think a fucking WINDOW is going to fix that? What am I supposed to do, Brenda? Stick my head out and get a better view of the goddamn devastation?! Maybe if I’m lucky, a bird will shit on my head and that’ll be God’s little blessing through the newly opened window of opportunity for avian defecation!

What did I actually say? "That's an interesting perspective, Brenda. Now, about this late fee…"

The sheer, monumental effort it took not to leap over the counter and use Brenda’s perfectly laminated "Ask Me About Our New Rentals!" sign as a blunt instrument should earn me a goddamn Nobel Peace Prize. Or at least a fucking cookie.

Diary Entry: Politely declined Brenda's theological home renovation tips. Did not bludgeon her with office supplies. Significant progress. Still getting that goddamn late fee, though.

"You know, Cassie, it's been two years. Don't you think you should redecorate the living room? All that… him… it can't be healthy." (Translation: Your shrine to glorious, messy, unapologetic rock-and-roll manhood is an affront to my beige sensibilities, and also, I’m deeply uncomfortable with physical reminders that people actually die.)

Dear Diary: Resisted the urge to redecorate person's face with Patrick's collection of The Beatles LPs. Progress.

"You just need to put yourself out there more! Join a book club! Take a pottery class! Meet new people!" (Translation: Your solitary existence, steeped in the comfortable agony of familiar ghosts, is making me sad, and I need you to fix it by becoming a participant in activities I find pleasant.)

Dear Diary: Considered joining a book club solely to recommend "The Anarchist Cookbook" for every goddamn selection. Decided against it. For now. Progress.

It’s the "You should be grateful for the time you did have." (Oh, thank you, Captain Hindsight! My cup of gratitude runneth the fuck over, right next to my overflowing cauldron of rage and despair!)

It’s the "They’re in a better place." (Sweetheart, the only "better place" would be right here, beside me, ideally telling you to shut your goddamn platitude-hole.)

It’s the "Have you tried [insert current bullshit wellness trend here – mindfulness, keto, crystal healing, interpretive dance therapy with llamas]?" (Absolutely not, but I have tried imagining shoving your crystals up your ass. Surprisingly therapeutic.)

Each unwanted, unsolicited, unhelpful, often deeply offensive piece of "advice" is a fresh goddamn spark on the kindling of your already smoldering, barely contained rage. The self-restraint it takes not to tell these people to go pleasure themselves with a rusty pineapple is monumental. And every single fucking day you manage it? Every day you don’t verbally disembowel someone for their breathtaking, mind-numbing stupidity? That, my fellow survivor, is a goddamn win. Write it down. Celebrate it. You’ve earned it.

And let's not forget the glorious moments when Grief Brain and Annoying Fucking Humans decide to team up for a special fuck-you-very-much combo platter.

This brings us to the ever-present joy of Annoying Fucking Humans in their natural habitat. These aren’t necessarily the platitude-spewers. These are just the garden-variety oblivious, self-absorbed, or just plain fucking irritating individuals whose mere existence can, in your current state of raw-nerved hypersensitivity, feel like a personal affront designed by the universe to test the outer limits of your dwindling sanity.

My encounter today was with Chad (it's always a fucking Chad, isn't it?). Chad is the barista at my local coffee hellhole. Chad is relentlessly, aggressively cheerful. Chad believes every customer interaction is an opportunity for him to unleash his inner life coach/motivational speaker/human golden retriever.

"HEY THERE, SUPERSTAR!" he boomed as I approached the counter, looking and feeling like something that had crawled out from under a damp rock after a three-day bender with existential dread. "HOW IS THIS GLORIOUS DAY TREATING YOU?!"

My Grief Brain, never one to miss an opportunity for sabotage, immediately supplied: Glorious, Chad? Is it fucking glorious? My world is a grey, ash-strewn wasteland. The only thing glorious about this day is the fact that I managed to put on two socks that vaguely match and haven't yet burst into spontaneous, soul-shattering sobs in front of your impeccably organized display of decorated muffins, you relentlessly upbeat motherfucker.

What I managed, through teeth clenched so hard I think I chipped one, was a low growl that might have sounded vaguely like, "Coffee. Black."

Chad, undeterred, continued his assault of cheerfulness. "AWESOME SAUCE! You know, every day is a gift! That’s why they call it the present!" He winked. A goddamn wink.

I swear on every bit of self-restraint I can somehow still fucking manage, I contemplated vaulting the counter and waterboarding him with lukewarm decaf. The vision was vivid. It was detailed. It was surprisingly satisfying.

But I didn't. I paid for my coffee. I took the cup (which he’d drawn a goddamn smiley face on). And I walked out. The urge to turn around and hurl the scalding liquid back in his beaming, oblivious face was a physical fucking force, a tidal wave of "JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP, CHAD" that I had to wrestle into submission with every ounce of my being.

Diary Entry: Survived Chad. Coffee acquired. No baristas were harmed in the making of this caffeine procurement. Considering this a goddamn triumph of human endurance. May need therapy. Or more whiskey.

See? This is the daily reality. This is the tightrope walk. This is the constant, internal negotiation between the raw, screaming agony of your grief and the absolute necessity of not inflicting grievous bodily harm upon the often well-caffeinated but profoundly clueless general public.

It's the relentless onslaught of social media perfection. The curated lives, the engagement announcements, the baby photos, the triumphant declarations of #blessed, all while you’re scrolling through your camera roll, your vision blurring with tears, looking at pictures of a life that feels like it happened to someone else, in a different fucking dimension. The urge to comment, "That’s nice, Karen, [your person] still dead though," is almost irresistible.

The Daily Docket: Didn’t Commit Murder. Nailed It.

So, how do we navigate this daily minefield of internal chaos and external fuckery without actually racking up a body count? It's a delicate goddamn dance.

— The Internal Scream Room & Homicidal Fantasy Log: Cultivate it. Nurture it. This is your sacred, soundproofed, padded space. When someone unleashes a torrent of breathtaking stupidity, or Chad the Barista asks if you’re “having a super-duper day” one goddamn too many times, you retreat to the soundproof, heavily fortified room in your mind and you LET. FUCKING. LOOSE. Scream. Swear. Verbally (and sometimes, in vivid detail, physically) disembowel them with the most creative, vicious, soul-satisfying insults your Grief Brain can conjure. Let the imaginary blood, guts, and severed platitudes fly. Then, compose your face into something vaguely resembling polite, weary neutrality and utter a weak, non-committal, "Hmm, that's… a thought." They’ll never know the sheer carnage that just unfolded within the confines of your skull. Keep a mental (or actual, heavily encrypted) log of these. Reviewing them later can be surprisingly cathartic.

— Develop Your "Resting Grief Face": This is a carefully cultivated expression that says, "I am a fragile, unpredictable creature currently marinating in sorrow and rage. Approach with extreme caution, and for the love of God, do not ask me how I'm doing unless you have three hours and a therapist on speed dial." It filters out a surprising amount of bullshit. Perfect it. Utilize the hell out of it.

— The "Bless Your Heart, You Poor, Clueless Fuckwit" Deflection (Weaponized Southern Charm, Even If You're From Fucking Detroit): There's a profound art, a vicious beauty, in the Southern "Bless your heart." It sounds so sweet, so deceptively concerned, so dripping with gentle empathy. But we all know, deep in our dark, cynical souls, what it really means: "You are a monumental, breathtaking, awe-inspiring fucking idiot, and I am approximately 3.7 seconds away from losing my ever-loving shit and possibly causing a scene that will require police intervention, but societal convention and the fear of a lengthy prison sentence dictate I pretend to be fucking nice." Master it. Practice it in the mirror. It’s a goddamn lifesaver.

— The Strategic Fucking Retreat (Also Known As "ABORT MISSION! FUCK THIS SHIT, I'M OUT!"): You are not obligated to endure bullshit. Tattoo that on your goddamn soul. You are NOT obligated to stand there, rooted to the spot, and absorb someone's insensitive word-vomit, their oblivious chatter, or their sanity-testing incompetence. Your energy is a precious, finite, rapidly dwindling resource, especially now. If a conversation is heading into toxic, platitude-ridden territory, if someone is relentlessly pushing your grief buttons, if your internal scream room is reaching critical goddamn capacity… LEAVE. Eject. Fucking disappear. Politely, if you can somehow muster the energy and the social grace. "So sorry, I just remembered I have to… uh… go water my existential dread. Gotta run!" Abruptly, physically, without a goddamn word, if necessary. Just turn and walk away. The world will not end if you remove yourself from an infuriating, soul-draining situation. Your sanity, however, might just be preserved for another goddamn day.

— The Permission to NOT Be Okay (And to Not Hide It): Stop trying so goddamn hard to perform normalcy for the comfort of others. If you're having a shit day, if your grief brain is particularly belligerent, if the next person who offers you a platitude is in danger of being strangled with their own good intentions… it's okay to let it show (within the bounds of avoiding actual incarceration, of course). A strategically deployed "I'm having a really fucking hard day, and my tolerance for bullshit is at zero" can be a surprisingly effective idiot repellent.

— Find Your "They Fucking Get It" Tribe (Even If It’s Just One Fellow Degenerate, My Book, or a Really Understanding Dog): This is crucial. Utterly goddamn crucial. You need at least one person, one space, one outlet, where you can unleash the raw, unfiltered, often homicidal truth without judgment, without fear, without sanitized goddamn platitudes. Where you can recount the saga of your daily fucking restraint and have someone laugh with you until tears stream down your faces (or offer to help you bury the body, no questions asked). These are the people, the spaces, that remind you that you’re not crazy (mostly), that your reactions are valid as hell, and that surviving this level of daily, soul-grinding aggravation is, in fact, progress. They are your sanity anchors in a sea of bullshit. Cling to them.

So, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to acknowledge this daily, often hourly, battle for what it is: an act of profound strength and nearly superhuman self-control. Forget "finding inner peace" for a minute. Let’s just celebrate not ending up on a "Most Wanted" poster.

This series, these "Dear Diary" entries, isn't about finding solutions. Because let's be honest, there are no easy fucking solutions to navigating a world full of Chads and Brendas when your soul is screaming. This is about validation. It’s about a shared, savage humor. It’s about acknowledging that the internal battle to just not snap is a legitimate, heroic fucking struggle and choosing, against all primal instincts, not to make today the day you finally make the goddamn headlines.

Think of these weekly goddamn transmissions as your survival guide to the human zoo, as viewed through the bloodshot, weary, perpetually-on-the-verge-of-screaming-or-committing-a-felony eyes of someone who's already lost too much goddamn precious life to tolerate any more bullshit. It’s a sacred, profane, brutally honest space to acknowledge the rage, the frustration, the sheer, breathtaking absurdity of trying to function like a normal human being when your internal landscape is a goddamn warzone, littered with the smoking ruins of what used to be, haunted by the ghosts of what will never be again.

It’s about knowing you’re not alone when you fantasize about telling Aunt Mildred her knitting needles would look far more "therapeutic" if strategically inserted into her goddamn ear canal. It’s about recognizing that the desire to respond to "They're in a better place" with "And you will be too, shortly, if you don't shut your fucking mouth" is a surprisingly common, if rarely acted upon, grief response. It’s about understanding that sometimes, the only thing keeping you sane is the very thin, very frayed thread of social convention that whispers, "Murder is generally frowned upon, even when deeply provoked."

It's about the internal editor that works overtime, translating your raw, bleeding thoughts ("I hope you choke on your unsolicited advice, you clueless twatwaffle") into something vaguely socially acceptable ("Thanks, I'll think about that"). That internal editor deserves a goddamn raise and a lifetime supply of therapy.

And if maybe this all sounds a bit melodramatic? "Oh, wow, you didn't commit a felony today. Here's your gold star." Fuck you. If you're not living it, you don't get to judge the scale of the goddamn victory.

So, if you’re out there, white-knuckling your way through another day, your internal monologue a symphony of thwarted violence and existential despair, know this: I see you. We see you. Your restraint is legendary. Your ability to plaster on a vaguely human expression while your insides are a raging inferno is nothing short of fucking superhuman.

Welcome to the club. We don't have t-shirts (yet), but we've got an endless supply of shared outrage, gallows humor, and the unwavering understanding that sometimes, the greatest victory isn't "healing" or "moving on." Because in the Thunderdome of grief, sometimes the only thing that keeps you sane is knowing you’re not the only one quietly (or not so quietly) muttering:

"Dear Diary, Today I Didn’t Commit Murder. Progress."

The urge to correct, to educate, to unleash the full, scorching truth of your reality upon their blissful ignorance will always be there. And sometimes, you will. Sometimes, you must. But tonight, when you’re looking back on another day survived, another day where the body count remained at zero (at least, externally), raise a goddamn glass to yourself. You navigated the shitstorm. You faced down the stupid. You wrestled with your own internal demons. And you’re still here.

And that, you magnificent, murder-suppressing warrior, is more than enough.

Stay tuned for next week’s installment, where we’ll likely explore the unique joys of dealing with automated phone systems while Grief Brain is attempting a hostile takeover of your remaining functional neurons. It promises to be a fucking delight. Bring bail money. 

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