This week was a weird week and it involved a lot of panic attacks, which I won't dive into, but it also involved my friend, Sookie (not her real name, but she is the Sookie St James to my Lorelai Gilmore, so that is what she shall be called here), being lovely to me and wonderful in many ways, because last night, she felt the need to check in via text: Sookie: Mental health check.
Me: Me? I'm doing okay now. Watching Doctor Who with Mike. The dog seems back to his normal self (Did I tell you that I thought he was dying the other night?) and life feels good. You?
Sookie: I'm fine. What was wrong with Gio?
Me: I think he just had a bug. He wouldn't get off the couch or eat and I'm pretty sure he had a fever. And all the dogs that I've lost so far in my life have dropped very suddenly under similar circumstances, so I might have had a bit of a panic attack over the situation.... Thus proving that I'm not cut our for human children because I might care a little too furiously about the things I'm not biologically tied to.
Sookie: Oh that sounds awful!
Me: Yeah, it was fun. But I like to think that the level of screwed up I am is endearing.
Sookie: I completely agree. Your level of screwed up is very charming.