This was something that, in actuality, occurred a couple of months ago. However, it’s been ruminating in my head, as something that I felt the need to share since it happened. I was told today that I need to update my blog more, and considering that my life is one huge joke, I feel like she’s right.
So, one day, I was driving my (mom’s) car. Simple enough, right? No. Apparently not. Not for me. There always has to be something that somehow makes simple things difficult for me. I cut my finger somehow (???) on the steering wheel, but I had important things to do that day. Important!
I had baby animals to see, damnit! And I was not about to let a cut on my finger bar me from the occasional cuddling I so desperately need to keep myself sane and not curled up crying on the floor of my apartment. So I continued on unabated to the Humane Society. When I arrived, however, I was still bleeding, and so I ever-so-politely asked for a band-aid. Which I was kindly given.
After bandaging my battle wound, my brother (Oh yeah, he was there, too) and I resumed. We visited first the rodent room, where I felt that it would be a wonderful idea to open the rat cage and, having no prior socialization whatsoever with rats, chase one around the cage with my hand until I cornered it and then reached for its little head. Rightly, it was at least a little bit peeved at what I was doing all up in its grill. So it bit me.
I’ve been bitten before, but never before by a rat, and let me tell you, it hurts like the dickens. I toddled up to the staff again and bled on their counter while pathetically asking for yet another band-aid, which they graced me with. And once I returned from washing buckets of blood from my finger, freshly bandaged once again, they pushed over some forms that I had to sign to ensure that I wouldn’t sue them for my own ineptitude.
After that, I said screw it, and let’s go look at the cats. I can’t fuck it up with harmless little kittens, right? Wrong once again. I seemed to have forgotten that I was, and continue to be, allergic to cats. So my face became gradually more and more stuffy and red, and by the time I decided that I had to go, I was crying and my eyes were bloodshot. So that’s how the Humane Society staff saw me, a potentially fully-functioning adult, leave the building: a sobbing, blubber-faced goober, holding her boo-boos and shuffling out the door, defeated.
I feel like there are few things already on this earth that I am fully capable of doing, and now animals is no longer one of them.