(no subject)

Today, I am 48.

Fat, old, and alone. Shitty car. Shitty home. Wife doesn't live with me. No friends. No respect. Talentless. And my dog is dying.

Look at the man who always has a kind word. Nice fellow, but don't look too closely: His clothes are fraying. His eyes are red.

(no subject)

Ella has pancreatitis. Any problem I had can't be as bad as what my poor dog must be enduring. My wife has a bad back, too and she's had to carry the dog to the vet twice today and is walking back a third time for some medicine.