I am on what I may hereforth call "The Nerd Station: Master Control Center".

Four monitors, check.
Funky-ass keyboard, check.
Over-size mouse, check.
More random electronic eqipment than I can ID, check.
Massive three-screen wallpaper of more superheros than I can ID, double check.

...but I have now relocated myself to the infinitely easier to type on laptop, trying to position myself comfortably on the armchair in the bedroom.

Failing.

Comfortable for reading, not so much for the writing.

I may have a date with the couch next.

Ah, yes, this is perfect.

I may name my non-existent first child after this couch.

Let's do a quick run-through of what I see.

I'm... sitting on a light green and white couch, matching throw pillows. Ten tall, fully-loaded, cedar-looking bookcases to my left, along with an armchair that matches this couch, with a podium and small table beside it.

Couple set of dark-wood drawers to my left, followed by the bed, another set of drawers, armoir. The floor is thick wood, warehouse wood, the nails hammered in, heads beaten shiny and flat. The ceiling is the underside of the same, crossbars and firesprinkler pipe running the length. Small, circular lights on straight, thin wires criss-cross at bizarre angles, looks wonderful.

The bedroom only has three walls. The fourth wall, at the foot of the bed, is open to the ground floor. If this laptop wasn't killing my night vision, I would see the dungeon below. The cage hanging from chains from a beam across the ceiling, the black and purple St Andrews cross, the black leather horse, the squareish looking bed with all the tie-down points dancing around its edges, another bed, gothicish metal canopy. Some other things that I don't know the name of. Hatstand full of whips, floggers, paddles, other items I've yet to examine.

Beneath me, out of my vision, a caged area for things needing more security, or simply needing to be out of sight. An entertainment center, massive DVD library to its right. Two bathrooms, one complete, one in progress. The kitchen next to them, some slight sitting area across from that, then the major cage, containing all the rest of the work-related equipment catty-corner, next to the inside driveway, which butts up against two rooms I've yet to explore.

I love the purplely-blue christmas lights that cross above the car in the driveway. That bit of color mellows me, somehow makes this place feel homey.

His ex's old office is on the second floor as well, across the open space from the bedroom, so I can see into it from where I sit. His office is across the hall from hers, and runs into the closet, which is a room unto itself.

Third floor is mostly open warehouse space. On of those empty places that gets hit with sunlight in all the right places, a place for thinking, for isolating yourself, watching the light hit your skin, contrast between building and flesh.

Fourth floor is his sometimes employee, sometimes employer, and his office. As well as the current hidey-hole of his ex and her husband, who will be moving out in the next couple weeks. They're both very nice, friendly and intelligent. Fun to talk to, but I'm still a bit reserved.

Stretched my legs out, PD texts to ask why he's not lying in my lap right now, but off on a set down the street.

I have to agree. There's room on this couch for two, afterall.

Things are going well, overall. Life is... okay. I'm doing better, stronger than I was in ways I did not realize, not even concerning my ex, but totally unrelated things.

I'm growing again. Or, at least, hitting a plateau where I can stop and see how high I've managed to climb this time.

Financially, things are good.
Family-wise, my father is still teetering, but he's holding thus far.
My sister is dating a construction worker, which boggles all of our minds, as I'm more likely to go for that type and she's infinitely more interested in their metrosexual counterparts.
Love-life, it looks optimistic. I'm hoping. This has the feel of the start of a relationship, feels familiar. Feels next.
As for the ex, apparently he's written some fairly hostile things, nothing overt, I'm told, but stuff that would cut me deep.

I haven't read them.

I got the notice on my phone, after the photogallery. I had PD check the contents while I talked with one of his friends. PD told me not to look, that it was just designed to hurt, designed to hit all the buttons that my ex knows too well.

At first, I did not look, did not read, because I did not want to be hurt.

Today, after talking with a friend, I decided not to read because I want to preserve that image I have of GV8. I want him to be who I thought he was, think he is, I don't want to cause that image to rot away. It may be stupid, may be naive, may be me burying my head in the sand.

It would be easier to read it, easier to read it and rage and cry, feel all the things he wanted me to feel, then lower his value in my eyes, destroy and taint all the memories we created together.

I won't.

He's no longer near-perfect in my eyes.

But I'm not going to sink him so low.

I'm going to remember us driving through the canyons, remember stopping at the wine boutique, cuddling outside of the motorcycle cafe on one of those winding roads, my happiness overflowing. Driving through the neighborhood he grew up in, all the stories. The love.

This, these last two weeks, I'm going to do my best to forget.

And I'll keep loving who he was, who we were.