Denial. My Favorite River.

I'd just like to preface this by saying that I am not completely insensitive. Irreparably damaged, perhaps, from my work with abused women and children, but not insensitive.
I just have my own way (or non-way) of dealing (or not dealing) with senseless tragedies, and it usually involves hours at the gym, followed by hours of shop therapy, followed by lengthy, meandering, inconsequential blogs that have nothing to do with certain people I know interrupting my night of tropical drinks in tiki glasses at the Kowloon by getting shot to death in the streets of Everett. And so, rather than dissect all of the minute gory details of that evening and the subsequent over-abundance of overwhelming emotions that follow hard upon recognizing a corpse in an Everett gutter and realizing your own personal failure to act before it got to that point, I think that I would rather talk about something shallow and meaningless instead.
Like the fabulous shoes I bought this morning.
Or lamb kabob Wednesdays at ZuZu with the Harmonious One.
Or how I can't figure out exactly why Clive Owen is so hot.
Everyone will have to forgive me if I would rather not relive that evening for the 700th time. The tragedies of the last several weeks have made me about as mad and morose as a certain Danish prince, and while that might make for a snazzy play, it makes for a shitty blog.