I CAN’T PULL MY HEAD OUT OF MY ASS

The pit is swallowing me whole.  The walls are collapsing and I can’t get out.  It’s sticky and heavy and feels like lead.  If I come home to find one more bullshit task waiting, I’m going to pack my bags and run away. 

Home doesn’t feel like home anymore.  It’s an animal hotel and I’m the janitor stuck with all the thankless responsibility.  Does it make me a bad person to say I’m sick of the job?  How many times do I have to hear how noble it is to take in yet another homeless pet?  How self-sacrificing it is to come to the aid of poor animals that have been thrown away by heartless owners?  

I know we must all do our part, but does that mean we should enable the sick motherfuckers by shouldering their work?  I can’t bear another story of some wretched animal being neglected, beaten and starved by its owner.  The end is always the same.  The pet is happily relocated (or in extreme conditions, euthanized) and the previous owner goes about his business, free of punishment and conscience!  For every Michael Vick, there are thousands who go unnoticed by the media.

Is it wrong to feel imposed upon by those worthless assholes?  Why must I look the other way?  It’s not a constitutional right to mistreat animals.  Who cares if these bags of skin complain about their civil liberties being violated?  They’d have a lot more to bitch about if ever I get my hands on them!

But since that’s improbable, I’ll have to settle for imagining their collective demise while scooping out litterboxes and picking up dog poop in the park.  I only hope that I remember to take care of myself as well.

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