So...New Year's Eve.
I had my eldest rat, Rosie, put down this morning. I brought her to my parents' for Christmas because she's been so poorly, but realised that there was nothing more I could do for her. The legendary trio of Lily, Bob and Rosie, three adorable little squeaks who have accompanied me through hell and high water these last two years, are finally no more. At least they're all together again. I have three rats left, Millie, Ratchet and Widget, all young and as far as I know in good health.
Bye bye my Rozel. I love you.
More bad news. I was supposed to be DJing with my man at a big fat New Year's bash down our local. Was gonna go home today. Then last night I got completely fucked up about Rosie, started having massive panic attacks and didn't get a wink of sleep. I was ill with a gastric virus over Christmas, and although I've recovered I still puked my guts up again this morning out of sheer misery. I'm trying to look after myself, and although it was hard as fuck I realised that three hours on a train dealing with New Year people dashing around would have killed me, and there was no way I'd be hitting an all-nighter afterwards even if I did manage to struggle home. I'm going home tomorrow instead.
So. I'm still at my parents' house. I won't be with my lover when the clock strikes twelve. I may even be completely by myself as my parents are going out for dinner with friends and they've already booked, so no space for me. And my darling Rosie is dead.
And to top it all off - when the clock strikes, it's also my birthday.
Happy fucking New Year.
I had my eldest rat, Rosie, put down this morning. I brought her to my parents' for Christmas because she's been so poorly, but realised that there was nothing more I could do for her. The legendary trio of Lily, Bob and Rosie, three adorable little squeaks who have accompanied me through hell and high water these last two years, are finally no more. At least they're all together again. I have three rats left, Millie, Ratchet and Widget, all young and as far as I know in good health.
Bye bye my Rozel. I love you.
More bad news. I was supposed to be DJing with my man at a big fat New Year's bash down our local. Was gonna go home today. Then last night I got completely fucked up about Rosie, started having massive panic attacks and didn't get a wink of sleep. I was ill with a gastric virus over Christmas, and although I've recovered I still puked my guts up again this morning out of sheer misery. I'm trying to look after myself, and although it was hard as fuck I realised that three hours on a train dealing with New Year people dashing around would have killed me, and there was no way I'd be hitting an all-nighter afterwards even if I did manage to struggle home. I'm going home tomorrow instead.
So. I'm still at my parents' house. I won't be with my lover when the clock strikes twelve. I may even be completely by myself as my parents are going out for dinner with friends and they've already booked, so no space for me. And my darling Rosie is dead.
And to top it all off - when the clock strikes, it's also my birthday.
Happy fucking New Year.
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Oh, and I hope you had a decent birthday, as much as it could be under the circumstances anyway.