Sure. I can do that.
Yes, I really wrote "redacted." I started with a screed about what a shitty week it has been, and deleted it. [redacted] is so much more eloquent in these cases.
Right now, I really dislike my job. I am the hamster in the hamster-wheel-of-death. The harder I work and the more I do, the more there is to do. My desk is hidden beneath a paperdrift, and I feel like I barely have time to breathe. This week was bad, since there was an internal deadline on Friday. I made the deadline for 2 of the 3 sections I'm writing for. The 3rd belongs to my uber-boss, and I think she just doesn't care about the internal deadlines, and she has the clout to back up her not caring. The dude who set the deadline brings out rage and desire for violence that I haven't felt in a very long time. I really despise him. I want to punch him. I want to make him cry. I want to make him fear.
That makes me a little bit ashamed of myself.
Then I picture myself outside his office, with my kick-ass machete in my hands, and I smile.
Today was the culmination of the shitty week. Our hot water heater has decided that it no longer likes water, so it spewed it all over our basement. Almost exactly one year ago, the main drain out of our house decided it was tired of being a drain and cracked, spewing water all over our basement. I suspect that we will soon be breeding the Mold that Ate Boston.
This new plumbing development nearly sent me over the edge, since I was planning to merely keep an eye out for work-fires that needed addressing but basically taking the weekend off. I was going to be all girly and take a bubble bath, with some sort of flower-scented soap. I was going to read SF while doing that so as to not totally be a girl, but still. It was going to be great. Until we had no hot water, that is.
Now, I want be able to even wash my hands with hot water until Monday evening. I nearly cried. I promised myself thate $evil_project would not make me cry this time, so I sucked it up.
Right now, our dog is half on my lap. He's a big dog - 70 pounds, give or take - but he thinks he's a lap-dog. When we first got him, I liked him. Today, I realized that I love him. It's complicated, getting a new pet after one dies, especially when that one almost literally saved my life. The new dog, though, is special, too. And I love him.
Another glass of wine, and I'll love all of you, too.
I think I'll stop drinking now.
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