So Bacardi didn't have his surgery yesterday after all -- they're going to wait a little longer and see if the problem corrects itself or something. I dunno; I'm no vet! So the little dog will be spared the caress of the knife for at least a little longer.

Caren wrote a poem today! Figured I'd follow suit. So here goes!

Tuesday the 11th

It's Tuesday the 11th
and I'm only twenty-three
day in and out my life is Hell;
living is killing me

Before I meet one new and neat
entire months pass by
and when I do, no time to talk!
it makes me want to cry

Yet not a single day goes by
on which I do not sight
some fool I'd like to choke to death
CAN YOU NOT SEE MY PLIGHT?!?!?

To top it off, my jobs suck balls
and scarcely pay a whit
"I want this book! No, wait -- that book!"
I DO NOT GIVE A SHIT!!!!!

A book called 50 Jobs Worse Than Yours
sits on a table in the store
I've glanced through it and I must shout
MY JOB IS WORSE, YOU BLASTED WHORE!!!!!!!!

True, other folks have awful jobs
but they have friends to ease the pain
I have no friends; I have no pals
nor sunny days! Just gloom and rain

and death-wishes for you and me!
My life is filled with misery.
Could Tuesday the 11th be
the day I die at twenty-three?

Ja.