the deeper the cushion

this has been a fucking frustrating week. and there is really nothing i can push all the blame onto, which handily exacerbates my surliness.
some of the worst moments of my life are directly related to sex.
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i took entropy to work with me yesterday with hopes of having her jaw-wire, and ideally her uterus, removed. i was feeling like shit already. the doctors flaked around until about 10pm, when the doctor i'd asked hours before to help me- the owner of the clinic- tried to pry the fucking wire out without any anesthesia. i was holding her, she was crying, and a group of technicians was standing around, all watching with the same horrified "why the fuck isn't the doctor using sedation" expressions. i had to ask several times before entropy was fully sedated. and this fucking pissed me off. why do i pretend to have loyalty to a job that treats its employees and their animals so disrespectfully? i would be furious if i was a client and my pet was handled that way. i have not had much loyalty to the place since my decision to stay in seattle, i admit; i am going through the motions, fairly blatantly. the fact that this week has been otherwise fucked up has not helped my attitude much. i left last night with an unspayed cat and a desperate need for a cigarette.
things will change soon.
the teapot that i've had for years -admittedly hideous with tulips on the side- burned through its base today. i did not know that could actually happen. i was heating water for tea and absently listening to the perpetual hiss of water hitting the electric burner; it wasn't until dribbling scalding water all over the counter that i properly investigated. i must make more tea than i realize. this is one of those crappy items that has travelled with me since 1997, to every place i have ever lived; i bought it at some thrift store for a pittance. it is a small accomplishment to wear an object completely the fuck out.
it has occurred to me as i have packed, then unpacked, my world o' shit over the last month, how i tend to hold onto things. i have books from when i was a kid, plants from 6 years ago, things on my refrigerator that i remember from the refrigerators in anchorage. it is comforting to maintain a sense of 'place', no matter where- like when i was backpacking by myself, and i would empty out my bag and look at everything, how seeing my clothes and the shit stuffed into my wallet was somehow validating, gave me proof that i existed outside of this precise instant.
how very first-world, i think disgustedly upon rereading that last paragraph.
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i am about halfway through 'no shame in our game', yet another what's-wrong-with-america tome; i also recommend 'the working poor' for a similar theme.
...left to my own at-home devices, i guiltily find myself rereading the chapters of 'valley of the dolls' involving the clusterfuckery of neely o'hara. i try to justify my vices with a semblance of balance, however skewed.