Well, it's been a stressful couple of days. Actually, I think I may be getting kind of depressed lately, so I hope I'm not too whiny. Maybe it's the onset of winter, maybe unemployment, something, I dunno. I think that's why I haven't blogged very substantively lately, I gotta get it together.
Thursday I went to go take a needlepoint class that turned out to cost more than I thought it did, I went down the street to the library and found a bunch of books on it and I'm going to teach myself.
Then later Dad and I were grocery shopping and some junkie beggar asked us for money. She was just skulking around the store, approaching people. I could tell she needed it for drugs, so it just really bugged me.
People that are obvious heroin addicts really squick me out. A couple weeks ago, I was walking the dogs in the park and one of them approached me. It was a girl that I had gone to Jr. High with. She started talking to me and I noticed the trackmarks on the backs of her hands and wrists, and how skinny she was. Later I saw her making a drug handoff to some other girl, who naturally came over and tried to talk to me--which is something else that freaks me out a little, why do these people always feel the need to talk to me?
What's up with that? And then there is the factor of the age of these people. I am noticing that an awful lot of them are my contemporaries. I'm like two months older than Kurt Cobain--is everyone trying to identify with him? Because frankly, I don't see the benefit. This is another reason why Morrisey is so awesome as a model for depression and antisocial feelings, he's in touch with all that, but you know he would never wimp out and shoot himself.
Anyway, Dad and I had a difference of opinion on the junkie chick, he got very passive/agressive about it. He occasionally tells me he worries about someone coming behind me and hitting me over the head with a lead pipe, but he's actually the one who doesn't have the ability to avoid certain types of people.
Then on Friday, I found out that Cole, one of the dogs I walk, passed away the night before. Wednesday, they had taken him to the vet, Thursday morning the vet called and said he had cancer in his lungs, and of course, that evening he walked up and layed down at his master's feet and expired.
I had just helped these people put their potbellied pig to sleep a few weeks ago. I also know that they will take some of Cole's ashes and keep them on a shelf somewhere, next to the ashes of every pet they've ever had.
Well, I felt so depressed on Friday I was exhausted. I feel better now.