The amazingly applicable "5 stages of grief"

I've decided today that the 5 stages of grief can be used for all situations, preferably for comedic effect. This all started when I was discussing with my mom what would have happened had I lawn-mowered my foot today, besides the fact that it would have sucked because I don't have health insurance. Mainly, I would have clenched my teeth, limped to the door silently, then said, very calmly, "Mom, I ran my foot over with the lawnmower." That's just how I deal with extreme pain. When I dislocated my shoulder, I acted like nothing had happened for the first twenty minutes. I, quite literally, tried to "walk it off". But anyway, that's how I deal with any sort of pain, except for menstrual cramps.


When I get cramps, it's like a t-rex is kickboxing with my uterus. Okay, that's a bad metaphor. It's more like it hurts really really really bad. See, that just sounds pathetic. Everything is better with dinosaur metaphors. But anyway, debilitating pain, so much that I've thrown up on more than one occasion. I deal with all other pain stoically, almost never crying or complaining, but cramps reduce me to a weeping wailing lump, curled up on the sofa or the closest flat surface I can find (see: bathroom floor). This is me with cramps:

1- denial: "No, no no no no, no no no, nooooooooooooo."
2- anger: "God! Yeah, I'm talkin' to you! You suck! What the hell is with giving me a uterus?! Why don't I go kick you in your godly stomach for a while, and see how YOU feel!"
3- bargaining: "Okay, forget I said all that. If you make my cramps go away, I'll go to church! . . . okay, we both know I'm lying about that, but I swear, I'll save some orphans or something, just make them stoooopppp. . . ."
4- depression: "Auhhhhuhhhuhh I huuuuuurt. . . ." cry and moan for a while
5- acceptance: "I hurt. This sucks."

This was all acted out with much loudness and gesturing on my part, as all of my crazy stories are. Just earlier today, I was telling my mom that pizza would be my "desert island food", because anything on a crust can be called a pizza, including ice cream and coffee. This then resulted in my almost knocking over the overflowing trash can, which then turned into me 5-stages-of-griefing about that.

1- denial: What garbage? I didn't knock over any garbage.
2- anger: Augh! Why is this garbage here!? Why does no one EVER take out the trash?! Stop making garbage!!!
3- bargaining: If you'll take out the garbage for me, I'll get you ice cream!
4- depression: Waaah, it's so stinky and gross. . . I hate it. It lessens my life by existing.
5- acceptance: Fine. I'll take out the stupid garbage. But you owe me!

I'm not sure if that last part fits with the five steps, but it would if I'd written them! This then dissolved into a talk about how I have a serious phobia of answering the door (or the phone; I'm turning into a hermit!). So here's my five stages of grief for that:

1- denial: I didn't hear the doorbell. Or that insistent knocking. Or the doorbell, again.
2- anger: Gah! Why do people knock on the door!? Don't they know I hate answering it! Plus, it means I have to stand up. . . .
3- bargaining: If you answer the door for me, I'll get you ice cream! (alternative that may or may not involve conversing with the person through the door, depending on your confidence in your psychic powers, or how often you engage in such behaviours as yelling at the TV: If you leave my doorstep now, I won't sic the hounds on you!)
4- depression: All my clothes are stained, and I think I'm wearing a pizza box. I'm wretched! I can't open the door like this!
5- acceptance: Sigh. I guess I should open the door. (alternative: Hey, they left because it took me too long! Hurray!)

My conversations seem to dissolve a lot, to the general amusement of the people around me. And since I'm only posting this because Rowan ordered me to, it seems they're fine with it!