I hate being at home now, after my dog almost died but then didn't and now has a hole in her neck like smokers who have smoked too much and can't breathe properly through their mouths anymore. Now that all the furniture is covered in sheets so that the goo from the hole doesn't get on anything valuable, and now that someone has to be at home at all times to make sure the dog doesn't scratch the hole. I hate being at home now because I hated thinking my dog was inevitably being put to sleep and having already mourned it's like I spent that night wrapped up in grief for no reason and someday I'll have to do it all over again.
I hate money, I hate mirrors, I hate "mostly sunny" days, and I hate monotony and other things that start with the letter m, and even things that don't.
Currently reading: The Woman in White, Wilkie Collins