"Kevin liked to say, 'On judgment day when I'm brought up before the great judge I'm going to say, "Hold on a second," and then I'm going to whip out my dead cat from inside my coat. "How do you explain *this*?" I'm going to ask.' By then, Kevin used to say, the cat would be as stiff as a frying pan; he would hold out the cat by its handle, its tail, and wait for a satisfactory answer."

~Valis, Philip K. Dick

I've got a feeling I'll be reading Valis again, because I need something of substance. Something tougher, sharper, more naked underneath the escapist magic tricks.

Life's a bitch, and my life's been a particular bitch for a while now. Not to be bitching about the bitch, and unlike David Byrne, I'm not wondering where the beautiful car is. I'm simply wondering where every-fucking-thing went. 

So here we are, more than a year after the hubby and me took in dad, because he could not return to his old place and live alone there, and we were all that was left, for a myriad of reasons that will get me spitting bitter foam as it is, so no need to go into that. Sucks to be the idiot that believes there's something as an honest draw with one short straw in the stack, hah.

Anyways, in the meantime my mom's boyfriend passed away, leaving a shadow of the strong and independent woman that raised me, and on top she'd been actin' funny too for a while and it ain't really passing even now she's finding herself again. Unless I personally visit her every day. Capisce?

See, in the life I had planned, there was a hole for one parent to take care of daily, and my dad wasn't it. He's sleeping in the guest bed reserved for mom years ago, imagine how that goes for a gall whose parents divorced 35 years ago. Things are just peachy!

Meanwhile I had a great job except for the idiots I had to deal with in the workplace. Luckily it was a substitute thing, so when the substituting was done and they offered me a real position I bowed out, and found THE JOB OF MY LIFE, except I'm not allowed to continue doing the job, because I don't have a bachelor degree, which the Flemish authority of sports federations thinks I should have. *Any* bachelor degree is better than someone who's been gathering directory secretary competences by doing for over 10 years the job of the better qualified and better paid person over head ("over-head" got it? I made a joke there, see?)

And just when you think: ah, well, when the going gets tough, the tough get going (*eyeroll* I know), GOD KILLS MY GODDAMNED CAT!

There. I just needed a marker for just this day, see. Because I've got plenty of dead cats stowed away in my coat. But Pipsqueek, right here right now, is where this crap stops, okay? Next big thing that happens better be ME WINNING THE EFFING LOTTERY ARRIGHT?

Jeez, fuck karma, man, what was I supposed to be in my former life? The guy who butt fucked Charlie Manson when he was 5?