I'm aware as I write this how fortunate I've been. Nearly three years ago, I faced complete and utter disaster: personal, fiscal, emotional, social. The low points were too many to count, but I remember having to consider, seriously, options as drastic as executing a divorce against a comatose man in order to protect our home.

As I am beginning the process of packing up to leave, the irony of that previous statement is not lost on me.

In terms of time, there are about five months left. I added it up, though, and thanks to the traveling I'm doing, I will only be in this house for about another 45 days. That knowledge colors my actions.

This is the point where, with a massively awkward silence, I look at the blog I've had to let rot and say to a subset of friends, "Can we talk?" The reality, though, is that you probably know what this post is about, and even if you don't know for certain, you have a sinking feeling, deep down, that you already suspect what I need to say.

Let me put it plainly, then, so we can move on: