I feel vaguely like laughing at the moment. A weak, uncomfortable laugh while my stomach sits twisted into a knot and I have to blink a few too many times.

For most of the work day so far, I’ve been bored. Not quite enough to do, no deadlines, making work. I am restless and petulant and want things to read and people to talk to and projects to do. But no, we launched a new client this weekend, and so the guys are, I’m sure, pretty busy cleaning up after that, and for me? Lalala…

Except then I did my round of the local Humane Society sites as I do most days. And there was this. Oh fuck. I can deal with sad-eyed dogs and confused-looking puppies and hounds with floppy ears and big, soulful eyes. But these dogs all have one word attached to them: Louisiana. And that means families broken apart and drownings and pets literally torn from the arms of children and dogs trapped on roofs and balconies and STOP IT. I can’t even watch that shit on tv. I can deal with days upon days of disaster porn otherwise. I can watch human corpses floating by. But don’t talk to me about goddamned Snowball.

And once again, ladies and gentlemen, the animals remind me that it is so fucking not about me.

But I still feel pouty about having to go help paint after work…

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