November 4th, 2003

black

dragging myself through days ...

this is beginning to feel like a depressing self pity journal. But hey, that's what Live Journal is for, right?

Work was just ... non. I didn't do anything that mattered, just the usual. Lots of paperwork, writing down dates and animals and owners and drugs and lab test and tried to figure out where all the dammed control drugs that I can't track are being used. Read magazines. Took temperatures. Looked at LJ. Hung out with Michael. Checked a cat's blood sugar every two hours. (That's how talented I am, by the way. You try doing a jugular blood draw from a cat by yourself. Three times. You know I rock.) Bitched about my co-workers. Mopped. Just the same things I do every fucking night.

I'm hoping Michael doesn't have to work tonight, I want to take him to dinner at the little Italian place by my house. If I don't eat there like once a month, I get all cravey over it. It's good ... but i think Michael might have to work tonight. He's been working Tuesdays lately.

Small blessings ... No class next week due to veterans day. Yay. Managed to resist walking out of my class early today. I'm proud of myself. Talking to the girl who sits behind me ... she looks 25, 30 at the most. Turns out she's in her 40's with 5 kids. I never, ever would have guessed. Teaches me something about judging books by covers.

Had to explain to my parents this morning what happened to the puppy. I didn't want to ... I didn't want to run into them and talk about it. I didn't want to accept their sympathy or deal with their sadness. But I saw them, and got the inevitable, "Where's the puppy?" And if I had talked to them about it when it had happened, or even yesterday, it would have been easier. But I've already taken all the emotion brought up by the pup, and stuffed it back deep where it belongs. So I can't empathize, I can't be sad to properly receive their sympathy, I'm just cold like usual. And I almost feel guilty about their sympathy, their hugging, their consoling, because at this point it feels fraudulent. Not that I'm not sad about it, not that it doesn't hurt, but the emotion isn't touchable anymore.

Holy shit, did I just write something revealing about myself and the way i think? fuck ... i must be tired.

In other dog news, Flea seems to be doing better. His back is giving him less problems, and he's happily back to chewing bald spots into his fur.

So I'm not asking for birthday presents. I don't give them, and I don't expect any to be given to me for precisely that reason. However, several people have jumped all over me as far as what i want for my birthday. Well, I finally thought of something. If anyone has to buy me something to feel good, buy me the extra userpics. Or a functioning oven.

to bed with me, i think ...
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