I Suppose You Could Call This Venting
I'm restless. There's no other word for it. I want to sit down and read a book, but anything I've picked up over the last few hours irritates me within a few lines and I put it down again. I was reading Oliver Sacks' The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat
, which I'm enjoying, but you can only read so many stories about people with brain tumors and other such problems in the space of a day. I started Shannon Hale's Enna Burning
, which I think I'd enjoy if only I'd read the book to which it's a sequel; as I haven't, I'm wondering why I should care about these people and their clearly established relationships. (And who would have known that I could feel such irritation at an otherwise good-seeming YA novel.) I just want to be reading something already, deep in the middle and lost in plot. I'm just not in any mood to make introductions to a book.
Work is ... well ... work. I've been entertained at work lately, mainly because I've felt something like a reckless child poking animals with sticks to see how they react. This is both entertaining, somewhat amusing, and entirely necessary. Yet the whole thing has me in a bad mood of late, and I find myself just wanting to say, "Are we still talking about this? Can't we just cut out all the bullshit already?" (And that, Stephen, is as close to work-related gossip as you're going to find here.)
Course, it doesn't entirely help that the exact job that I was waiting all summer and fall for, the job that I seached and rewrote my resume for, appeared online a few days ago, and I know, know, know that I can't leave my current job just yet. Not for their sake, but for mine. Still, the brain goes "damn it!"
I was with my family for most of the afternoon, which I loved; sometimes I miss my home, bickering and all. But this morning Tia--who has been hanging on to life and good spirits with cheerful tenacity--became rather suddenly and rather obviously ill. It's one thing to know and to understand illness; it's quite another to see your puppy, who hasn't even had her fourth birthday yet, curling up in dark corners, not wanting to eat or drink, whimpering with each breath. You know what? That just sucks. And I know she is not a human being, and I have friends who are in much worse positions than I am so I know how lucky I am in so many respects, and I think it's better that she goes quickly from "happy if dying dog" to "dead dog," but god damn it all, it sucks.
I wish I had a book to read. I desperately need something to distract me.