Current mood:	enraged
Current music:	"Another Way To Die" by Alicia Keys & Jack White

A Horrible Birthday
I'll keep this short, since I'm both weary AND tired. Yes, there is a difference, but I'm too exhausted to explain it right now.

The Thanksgiving at our house was off to a pretty decent start. The pies were being made, the oven was ablaze with wondrous specimens of food. Much to my chagrin, even Miracle On 34th street was playing after the inevitable parade/dog show that CBS drags out on us every years. Decent vibes.

Then I notice my dog.

Now, normally, this is what you might call the least typical chihuahua ever. Mojo, so named for his "Transformers" counterpart, is by no means a purse dog. He's tall for a dog his breed, and is the only chihuahua I've ever seen with muscle tone. He often tries to look endearingly cute by standing and walking on hind legs, knowing the ploy often garners foodstuffs from the unaware. Active, is a good word for him.

So imagine my surprise to find him laying on the couch, panting like he'd run a marathon. It took a deal of prodding on my part to pry folks away from the cooking and tradition, but I eventually shouted and swore crudely enough to get the dog taken down to the emergency animal hospital.

The short version is that, after six straight hours of undivided attention by the doctors (due to no real pet traffic thanks to owners being home for the holidays) and a full blood screen later, these crack medical professionals deduced two things:

1) They may have a half-way decent idea of what's wrong with my dog, but they need to run more tests.
2) They really, really like finding out what the credit limit for the family credit card is.

These people ran exactly two, count 'em, TWO broad-spectrum tests, neither one of them invasive, charged around $2000 and rising, and still have no fucking clue why my pet has fluid in his lungs to show for it.

On my fucking birthday.

I am rage personified right now. Not anger. Anger's what you get when you step on a tack, or a guy cuts you off in traffic. I am in that very familiar area of fury that makes me want to gut punch past these people's stomach walls and squeeze, forcing them to drown in their own bile. These pricks have actually made me tell other family members not to get me gifts, because I don't want to choose between something new that costs money and the living fucking creature that likes to watch TV with me. Right now I'm pretty certain a bible would spontaneously combust in my hand for what I think about doing to these people.

Did they ASK before saying "let's all go out and buy mink coats" at our expense? No, of course not. They decided to test first, bill later. It doesn't matter that one of the tests was made obsolete by the results of the second test. I mean, it's not like it would have saved A FUCKING GRAND, YOU HIDEOUS TROLL-LIKE INVALIDS!

So here I am, exhausted but unable to sleep, cursing the heavens, a sick dog isolated from me and the only present I'm likely to get is the vet's billable dick reaching to the recesses of my colon.

But before folks decide that this is all smoke and thunder, ask yourself this:

How much much angrier do you think I am knowing that there are people with other human beings sick in this exact same situation?

Fuck the police? No. Fuck the doctors. At least I've met an honest cop.

Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta get ready to craigslist some stuff.