So, Jackson is gone. I'm drunk off my ass, for what it's worth - my friend D kindly picked up the shattered pieces of me that were lying around and took them all out for a bazillion PBRs. So I'm drunk, and down one dog. And soon my life will be better, but right now I feel like shit, like a murderer, like Darth Vader with a Catholic school education and the accompanying guilt of doom. I took a dog who trusted me into hell and left him there to die. I suck and deserve to be tortured forevermore.
I'm looking back already on 2005, and on being 42, and I'm realizing that if, as the hippies say, each year has something to tell you, then this year is telling me all about being a failure, and losing. I used to think I was smart, and competent, and I could do anything. Damn funny in retrospect, because this year I lost a stupid job, two actually, and I couldn't take a blind Walker hound and turn him into a dog that anyone could ever live with.
I tried, lord, I tried so hard, both on the jobs and on the dog, and I failed utterly and miserably. So now I know - I can't do shit. Big huge enormous surprise. I'm so smart, supposedly, and so together, supposedly, and so all these other things - but I can't keep a job, a dog, or, god forbid, a man. And I can't even contemplate suicide because I have too many people to take care of, which seems unfair, somehow.