I frantically scrape the sides of an empty Nutella jar with a spoon as I think on it because I am anxious and embarrassed and frankly don't know how to handle the situation in a more mature, less animalistic manner. But I feel somewhat beastly just now. I can't help but think of Tuffy, early this afternoon: we went out. Met another puppy on our way. They made friends. Her owner and I made small puppy talk. Then we politely moved on and I turned away, walking, until the leash jerked me in to looking back. There, at the other end, Tuffy took care of business on his new friend's lawn. No inhibitions.
Suddenly, alone in the laundry room, I am much more like Tuffy than I have ever wanted to be. But much more aware of my situation and therefore much more humiliated. I'm something that people could refer to as 'it'. Thus we unconsciously name dogs and fetuses and any other things we're unsure of that don't seem to understand the term 'righteous indignation'.
And now I call myself. And I suppose that skirting around the issue via blog post number two will make me feel better. A secret outlet, through which I can be as vague and cryptic as I'd like--where I am god and can edit and delete comments at will.
But the truth of it all is that the only audience I really have is the me that is beside myself, laughing and crying simultaneously.
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