The aftermath

Home.

Where I lay down, and watched reality tv with my fiance (who, bless his heart, raced home to be there for me whilst I had a meltdown in the condo parking lot).  Curled up with a pillow, a cold drink, and the prospect of pizza soon and ice cream.  Because even though the appetite was nil, my inner fat kid just wanted to be comforted via my mouth.

This helped.  Like, a lot.  Mostly it was because I hadn't eaten all day and my head was pounding, and boom boom booming against my cranium.  Still, thanks Ben & Jerry.   You've always been there for me.

But the longer I sat there, eating my amazing ice cream, scalding the roof of my mouth with burning hot DiGiorno, and watching horrible reality tv - I couldn't help but notice how horribly depressing it all was.  Show after show.

"Please pack up your knives and go. Your work of art, didn't work for me. I have to ask you to leave the mansion. You must leave the chateau. Your tour ends here. You've been chopped! You've been evicted from the Big Brother house. Your dessert just didn't measure up. Sashay away! Give me your jacket and leave Hell's Kitchen. You did not get a rose. You have been eliminated from the race. You are no longer in the running to be America's Next Top Model. You're fired. Auf wiedersehen."

These phrases really weren't what I needed to hear as I wallowed in self pity.  With that, I took myself to bed.  Or rather, my fiance put me to bed in a blubbering dazed heap of tissues. And tried to sleep.

Tomorrow is a new day, and I know things will get better.  But, right now, ice cream and tissue. Ice cream, and tissue.