I woke up hurting.   I thought that putting on a bra would help, but it was a mistake – it just made it worse.   I thought that taking Max for a walk would make me feel better.  It made it worse.  I had fallen asleep with the heating pad on my ribs and it took forever to shake the groggy feeling.   So I thought we’d go for a walk when I got back from groceries, because I was feeling guilty and thinking that it wouldn’t make me feel any worse.   Yeah, it did.  I lost my patience, lost my temper, and came very close to leaving Max at the park.   Sigh

And I’m worried about him, about the lump I found, and if one more person tells me how their dog went from being perfectly healthy to dead in 2 weeks, I may just scream.

And to top it off, one of my favorite people in the world – well, she used to be – fell off the wagon 4 years ago and it’s been drama after drama since.   She’s currently in another crisis and I’m fucking sick of it.

Cranky.  Yes, hurting makes me cranky.   And frustration makes me cranky.   I’m frustrated with hurting, and with Max not listening, and with students and just with not having enough time to do what I want.   Sigh