Kage Baker was a firm proponent of the phrase “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Nor was she a soft practitioner, one of those people who endeavours to make pleasant small talk when inside they are barely controlling the urge to Hulk out. You all know who they are, Dear Readers.They may be making eye contact over the coffee counter  or smiling as you discuss the World Series  amid cocktails: but a close look reveals that their pupils are pinpoints, their teeth are not revealed in a smile but merely bared, and you’re probably about to get your jugular ripped out.

These are folk unfit for human contact. Some people never come out of this state – they becomes professionally passive aggressive, or evolve into serial killers. But most of us just hit the unfortunate state from time to time, cope with it (badly), and ultimately sleep, walk, read or drink it off.

But Kage was right – it’s best not to try and talk. Eschew social contacts. Fort up. Quarantine yourself. With the last of your rational mind, fight back the nasty-tempered chimpanzee hiding in all our genomes, and slink into a cave for awhile. The thing to remember is that it goes away. If you can control yourself until it does, all will eventually be well. Or at least better. Or at the very least, different.

I am in just such a horrid state today. I keep checking the stages of grief, but evidently my soul has never heard of them and will have nothing to do with such a tidy progression of emotions. I’ve been definitely dancing with acceptance the last few months – and a lovely dancer he is, too – but suddenly, with summer on the very horizon, his hands full of plums and Bass Ale, I have slipped back into anger. Depression, too, but mostly anger.

I need one of those giant African rats trained to seek out buried land mines. He could run all about and tell me where the pockets of destruction are buried in my id. Then we could stand at the edges and throw rocks at them until they go off harmlessly …

Exploding something would be nice.

Anyway. I really do have nothing nice to say, but I’m not as much of a lady as Kage was: I just cannot keep my mouth shut. so I’m taking palliative steps. I had chocolate-covered marzipan for breakfast. There are fresh berries with dinner. The little black cat and Harry seem aware of the dangers, and are both clinging to me sweetly – she purrs and he sings, and they both snuggle.

I’m going to read something of Kage’s, I think. That’ll make me feel better; or at least confine me to somewhere I would rather be until it’s safe once more to walk abroad.

The rest of you, Dear Readers, have a nice night.