Sometimes I want to complain about stuff and then I think of all the people starving and without fresh water in countries and I feel like I'm a dick for complaining and then I think that's not fair because I'm a person and this is my existence and then I think I am selfish for even thinking about it and then I realize that this sentence has gone on way too long.
I blame my second husband who is a very nice guy. Too nice - he was always depressed about the state of the planet and whatnot. He left his career as an engineer (hee hee that's sorta poetic) and became some sort of yoga zen master somewhere. At the time I found him tiresome for feeling the weight of the world and now sometimes I catch myself doing it and well, obviously it's all his fault. And who knew that shit was contagious?
And all of this because I wanted to complain about the eviscerated mouse I found in my garage this morning. There was a head and then a partial body from the chest down with guts all spilling out. I have no idea where the shoulders and forearms ended up. Maybe Barney ate that part. It was really gross. I should be able to complain about that. I guess I just did.