I suck.

I wanted *so* badly to see Happy Feet today. I have been looking forward to this for *months*! So much so that I was almost going to take myself, because this was a depressing day, and I am overtired, over-worked, and sick. But then I had to pick up Meg so that she could stay over here to be near her car, and I just didn’t manage it, plus I am not exactly happy.

Damn it.

I *will* go see it. I WILL.

Eventually. The actual truth, not that I would tell anyone, is that I have an underlying sadness that really put a damper on any fun stuff the past couple of days.

I am all upset over something, and if you aren’t in the mood to be depressed or hate me, don’t read the rest.

Something really depressing happened the other day, and I am still not completely up to talking about it. I might not ever be, so here goes: I really fucked up. I live in a residential-type area that one has to go down a two-lane road to get to from one direction. On this two-lane road are older homes, somewhat spread-out, almost a rural kind of layout, though it turns into Subdivision City after a stretch. So I was coming home that way, and I saw a black cat playing in a woody area a little back from the side of the road. That in itself is not unusual—many of the residents in the homes on the two-lane have cats, and I see them outside all the time. They all look well taken-care of—not hungry, not mangy, nothing like that, and believe me, if I did see one that did look bad, I would intervene.

Butsoanyway.

So I drove by and saw this black cat, and I thought (naturally) that he reminded me of Squooshable. I thought about stopping and trying to feed him (I actually do this pretty frequently—feed strange cats I see here and there, and if I ever did see one in trouble, I would try to help it), but I was sure enough that he belonged to the home he was right next to that I figured I’d probably just really piss off the owner if I pulled in and did that. Plus, he looked just fine—had a shiny black coat, didn’t look thin, and was bigger than Squoosh, so I figured he was at least two or three years old.

So I went home, and a few hours later when I left I took the same route, and there he was. In the road. Hit. Dead.

Yes, I am sure.

And I have felt for the past couple of days that this is my fault. Nothing like this has ever happened before, and I fucked up. I just cannot believe it. I keep thinking to myself that just five minutes of my time might have made a difference. He wasn’t hit near where I saw him, so he must have wandered farther down the road, which means that I was probably wrong—he didn’t live at the house where I saw him.

This has actually depressed me a great deal, and I really am very sorry…not that that matters or means anything at this point.

.