I feel just rotten having forgotten about this thing for eighteen days. There were things getting between me and you, my public; things you wouldn't understand, shouldn't understand. I couldn't have updated, and I didn't have.
The last couple of weeks have been spent trying to reconcile my unemployment with my money-wasting lifestyle. The latter has shown to be the victor, and I fear morbid results are on the way.
Checks and balances; last week, I adopted a new cat from the Humane Society. His name's If Gary Busey Were a Cat, although we've been calling him If Gary. Then, yesterday, my mother calls to tell me my little old dog has died. She was the first living thing I was ever charged with caring for, although I never really took too gooda care of her. I remember once, I couldn't have been more than five, in the middle of the winter when I carried her up the stairs of our front porch, which couldn't have been more than four feet or so, holding her out over the icy garden, and dropping her into the yard on her back, I guess just to see what would happen. My mom yelled at me; I don't remember how I reacted immediately, but whenever I think about it now I feel awful, and shit if I'm not gonna miss the hell out of that little dog.
A more author-centric entry than usual, but I haven't been feeling all that ephemeral recently.