My dog, a chow-mix/mutt, Whitey is lost. He got out and started trotting happily towards the corner of Adams and Orizaba in Paramount, CA and disappeared. We searched for two hours in the morning before we gave up and started calling places and posting his picture everywhere. He’s 10 years old, not neutered, male, yellow-orange fur with orange ears, his right ear is floppy while the left one is erect.
He’s got a small about of fuzz on the top of his tail and a bit more below, very fluffy and quite soft. Very friendly towards people and other animals, but does not come to strangers when called. Might answer to Hodor (we found that out yesterday). Was wearing his blue collar, but doesn’t have his ID Bone on it (fell off yesterday).
He’s got a fast trot, but is pretty easy to catch if you can keep up with him. He’s got a chapped black nose and brown eyes.
Please contact me at email@example.com if you find him. We just want him back.
Pretty sure I’m going through some sort of identity crisis. Or maybe I hate my career. I’m not sure anymore.
What I am sure, however: I love running conventions and I love working ConOps. Can I spin this into a company? Maybe. I really think I can.
It bothers me that I don’t know where my green laser pointer is.
Sung to the theme from NeverEnding Story, my friend’s bridesmaids sing about her and her husband’s geeky life. Complete with reference to Gallifrey (One).
It’s amazing how anything can trigger it.
I think I’m done with it, but I know in the back of my mind that I’m not, and that anything—ANYTHING—can trigger it. And then I’m sucked into the suffocating depths of its enveloping hold, helpless to emerge from it again see the light. It’s not the rain.
Rain does not cause it. I’ve never been one to dislike the rain, as little as we experience, and any we get is welcome even if it isn’t truly rain. We have rain, though. The front yard flooded. Not because it was a heavy storm, but because the front yard hasn’t had grass in it for at least five years, and had no means of taking that amount of water. Our dog was confused by the downpour.
I feel useless. I feel old. I’m not. I’m in my early 30s. A baby, as some would put it. It’s not cute being called a baby. Not when anything can trigger it.
I can’t provide. I’m a burden. Savings are being used to remain afloat and my ability to bound back hasn’t happened. I’m in a state I can’t control, or in a state I don’t know how to control. I owe taxes this year.
It started with word that I didn’t get the job today. And that I didn’t get the job from a few days ago. Or the really good one from a few weeks ago. Or the one a few days after I was let go from NuORDER. Or the ones before that.
And compounded. And I can put on a happy face for the world. But, I feel empty inside. A failure. With no degree and no savings and even when I managed to pull myself out of debt and build the credit up a bit, it was all wrenched away by the most horrifically run company in the world when I slowly began to hate my existence working for them. They were very poorly run, and I’m happy to be free of the horrors of working for two over-protective micro-managing non-software-oriented CEOs who should have trusted their other C-level employees to run their company and not run the other lower dregs so hard into the ground that many of us—MANY—suffered one form or another of stress disorder. There was no love for that company. I loved the people I worked with, my department especially. But hated the company itself.
That aside, I’m in the early stages of my depression. I’m not sure how to stop it. I’m not sure if I should stop it. I’m sure that I shouldn’t believe it. I’m not useless. I’m not a burden. I’m not a waste on this world.
But it’s getting harder to ignore the voice.
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