Last night we drank again. It wasn't much, just a glass of scotch and then a glass of wine several hours later. The problem for me is that even the smallest amount of alcohol has negative conequences for me. The nxt day is almost always ruined, and even if it's not ruined, I never feel that great. I usually walk around in a funk with a slight headache the entire day, wishing that it was tomorrow so I could wake up feeling good. There is absolutely no question at this point that I am still an alcoholic and drinking should not be part of my life. Unfortunately, it has become very difficult for me to stop. HAM drinks, my dad drinks daily, and now DL is in town and she drinks with my dad. Last night I actually saw her a bit toasty. I spend most of my days dreaming about the future. Future-tripping, I guess would be the unofficial term. I want to be out of this house. I refuse to blame anyone else for my choice to drink, but I will say it's a fuck of a lot harder to stop when it's always around me, on the lips of my boyfriend, a part of our lives. I don't crave alcohol, I crave health, yet I'm not addicted to health, so acheiving it is more difficult. It's so easy to just say, "fuck it" and have a drink when HAM drinks, or ask my dad for a glass of wine. It's hard to say no, it's hard to not ask, it's hard to no give in to temptation. My therapist said that he doesn't think my drinking is out of control, and he is right about that, it's not "out of control". I'm not spending my days and nights blacking out, doing regrettable things, ending up in the hospital, or even causing the slightest bit of concern in anyone around me. My therapist says, however, that I should not drink because of how it makes me feel about myself. That is a self-esteem deterrent. I agree with that, but I would add that I believe any drinking that I partake in is out of control in the sense that I have declared my desire not to drink, yet I do it anyway. I think it would be easier for me to be sober if alcohol wasn't in my home and if the people I love were not drinking so regularly. I'm sure it would also be easier if I were to return to AA, but that's just not gonna happen as long as I'm in Washington. God, I just want to get out of here. I don't believe in geographicals, I know they are something that alcoholics like to believe will work for them, but I do believe in a need for a change. I am so sick with allergies and stressed out by traffic, depressed by gray skies and constant drizzle, lonely without a dog, and angry that I am stuck living with my dad. I would take a tiny, dumpy apartment over this big, comfortable house if it meant that I was taking care of myself and making it on my own. I want it to be a year and half from now...now. God, I am sounding like such a classic AA definition of an alcoholic, but I need a place to vent and this is it. This is what all of us continue to think about, sober or not. We are all selfish, we all want what we want right now, we are inpatient, stressed out, pissed off, and resentful of our current situations. If you have a lifetime of alcoholic decisions behind you, of course you're not going to be satisfied with your present state of affairs, because the present state of affairs is a result of poor alcoholic decision making. It's not that every day is bad. It feels worse today because it is the day after doing something I have set out not to do. I have spacey and tired, weak and foggy. I just want out of this house and this city. I don't even care that I live in the Northwest anymore--it's really not the weather or the hills or the traffic, as many places have hills, bad weather, and miserable traffic. It's not the Northwest but what the Northwest represents for me. It represents failure to care for myself. It represents my old life and who I used to be. I am trying to become a new person, I even changed my name, yet here I am in my dad's house, working less than 10 hours a week, not writing as much as I should be, strung out on the internet, and drinking despite my desire for optimal health. I know the saying , "Wherever I go, there I am" is real. I don't think that moving away from here is going to "fix" me, but I do think it will be good for me. I am just so tired of waiting. I want to be there now. In AA they say, "You're exactly where you're supposed to be". Let's just say that is the truth. Then what am I to learn from my circumstances? Do I need to learn humility--should I just suck it up and go back to AA to face all the people who hurt me and let them feel so self-righteous about being kind to me, the one who relapsed? God, I can't think of anything worse. Can't I just admit that alcohol doesn't work for me without having to be around such cruel and abusive people? I would give AA a try in another state, where I wouldn't have to see those people. I know they exist everywhere, but the very specific individuals who hurt me--I don't think it would make sense for me to want to be around those people again, and eventually (for step 9) have to apologize to them, when they were the ones who are at fault. I don't know how I could ever see that differently. I was in pain and reached out for help, I showed up, I always showed up. I did my service work and I got berated for not doing it the right way. I asked for help and I got stood up twice, ignored, and rejected. I tried to make friends, as difficult as it was, and got humiliated. I just can't see myself having to be around those people again. Which is why getting away from this place would be good for me and I can't get out soon enough. I think I should look into summer writing retreats and see if there is any way I can spend the summer away from here, focused on my writing. I can't think of anything more important than writing for me, so why not. It would be the perfect excuse to escape. No one could argue with me, because it would be for my career, my future. I refuse to believe that things are going to suck forever. The future has to be better than right now, whether it's helpful to think that way or not. I will do my best to make the present bareable, but I know that the future will be better.

After about five months of experimentation with controlled drinking, I have decided I am indeed still an alcoholic. It started as just a half a glass of wine, then one glass, then two, occasionally a whole bottle and a few benzos, stealing my Dad's fentanyl patches and perks, smoking weed, and having a general desire to get more, drink more, check out of reality. But then I always wake up the next morning feeling guilty and hungover, even if nothing bad happened, which it hasn't. There have been a few negative consequences, affecting mainly me. I called in sick to work one day when I really just had a hangover. I got drunk and ate so much food that I made myself vomit. Those are the main things, but I think it's just creating a sense of general sadness in me. I am more depressed, less interested or able to do things. I get hangovers so easily that even one glass of wine will leave me feeling like shit the next day. Not to mention all the extra calories. And I'm down to 113 lbs now, so I don't want to sabotage that. I told HAM the other day that I am drinking alcoholically and stealing pills and drinking alone, because I don't want it to be a secret. I need someone who loves me to know that I am headed down that same ugly path. I haven't taken anything or had a drink in two days now, but I don't want to go back to AA. I was hurt too much by those people and I don't ever want to see any of them again. So I have to do it on my own, and honestly, I don't know if it's too late or if I'm OK to just stop and not care. I have a feeling the compulsion will return, although it hasn't yet. I still feel happy that I'm not drinking right now, even though it's almost nine at night, a time where I would like to have a glass of wine. I want to be a healthy, happy person, and using substances will not help me achieve those goals. I am desperate to get out of this life as a happy, successful person, not a fucked up loser. I just have to make a commitment to love myself enough to stop drinking and taking pills. I am going to be taking "The Art of Living" part 1 course on breathing this December. I was reluctant at first, but I decided, with a little discussion with HAM that I should just try it. It was created by Ravi Shankar. Mabye I can finally reconnect with some type of spirituality, maybe try yoga again. I need to fucking relax. Pills and booze are only temporary fixes and they will not help me grow or change, and in the long run, they perpetuate greater chaos in my life and hinder relaxation. I want to have the energy to work out five of six days a week, and this week (I do have a cold) I have only been once. I have continued to eat pretty healthy (minus the binges) and I think my diet has actually improved quite a bit over the last few months, so that's one bright spot, as well as my memoir writing class. I wish that class was every day. God, I just want to get into grad school. Getting fucked up certainly won't help with that, I already found out in 2006. I want my life to get better. I don't wanna die, spiritually, emotionally, or physically. I want to get better.

"My life is going to change. I can feel it." - Raymond Carver, Fat

Well, I thought it would be a good time to post something new
since I have recently been falsely diagnosed with PTSD and bipolar disorder. It
really sent me into a fucking depression for a few days there. I was going to
sign up for disability and start collecting my checks. I felt like a fucking
crazy person. Not that people can’t function with those disorders, but damn, I
can barely function as it is, so that was like way too much for me to handle.
Plus, this so-called psychiatrist, who turns out to be nothing more than an
ARNP, prescribed me gabapentin, which made me fucking insane for a few weeks,
but then, after I complained about the gabapentin, she wanted to put me on
Lamectyl, one of the two main drugs for bipolar disorder! And I am NOT bipolar!
I might be a nut—I might pull out my hair, chew on my lips and fingers, and have
an immense capacity for self-loathing, but I assure you, I am not bipolar. I
should be so lucky as to enjoy manic episodes of overwhelming self-esteem and
delusions of grandeur. No, lucky me, I suffer from pure MD….Major Depression.
Yes, that’s right, it’s the depression part of bipolar without the fun part (the
part that keeps people from wanting to take their meds). Yeah, woohoo, yay, me!
I have regular-ass old depression. Old school, writer shit. Typical Jew shit. Go
figure, big fucking surprise. So I can’t get a real job, or a real life, I’m stuck here in my dad’s house, a thirty-one year-old chick, with a less than part-time job, and a desire to
become a “published author” one day, when I’m the only one (and occasionally my
therapist) who reads my blog. I drank nearly an entire bottle of wine and then
silently snuck into my dad’s bathroom and found a bottle of benzos from 1996.
Will they still work? I took four. We’ll see. I also binged on peanut butter and
various sugary substances for the first time in a long time. I’ve been doing
good, in fact, I weighed myself today and I was down to 115.6, the lowest weight
I have been in over a year. But I probably sabotaged that tonight since I ate
almost 3000 calories in one sitting just a little while ago. I am such an idiot
some times. Do I want to sabotage myself? I don’t know, maybe. My ex called me a
few days ago for the first time in months. I didn’t even know he had my phone
number. It pissed me off. I told him to never call me again and I hung up on
him. But still, it fucked me up. I told him, “Well, I hope YOU feel better,
because I don’t. You think you can just call me up and apologize and tell me
about your life and whatever, and I’m gonna be OK with that. Well, I’m not. I
was fine already and I planned to never talk to you again. So I hope YOU feel
better, because I don’t. I feel worse. I’m gonna go now. Don’t ever call me
again.” And then I hung up. It felt scary to officially and finally take my
power back, but it felt good, too. He knew I meant it. He didn’t call again.
That was it—he knew I was serious. He knew I meant it when I said “never call me
again.” And he knew I meant it because it’s the truth. I never for the rest of
my life have any need or desire to talk to that asshole ever again. He’s put me
and HAM and our relationship through hell and he has absolutely nothing to offer. I
don’t need him to write my memoir. All I need is MY story, MY memories—not his.
If he wants to write a memoir, then he can go right ahead, but this one is mine
and I know enough about him and the rest of the losers of my past to write my
story, I want to call is something like, “My Life Through You”, or “Chameleon:
  The Story of the Girl Who Changed for Him”, or “UFO: Unidentified Female Object”.
Maybe the last one is best. I’d like to keep my misery lighthearted. Seriously,
  though, if you can’t laugh at your own life, you have no business laughing at
  anyone else. And, sorry, but that just won’t work for me. I need to laugh at
  all of us—we’re all fools. Even the smart ones.

I was going to write something tonight, but the damn Adobe Flash Player was being a bitch and now it's time to pick up HAM from work. I am in my memoir writing class now. Also, applying for full time jobs and going on interviews, secretly hoping I don't get hired so I can go to grad school and eventually become a professor of Creative Writing after I become a successful author. I am also making this AMAZING vegan minestrone soup regularly, which is not only saving me money, but delicious and healthy too. I am loving the whole cooking thing lately. I'm good at it and I am slowly converting HAM to veganism through example (never through pressure because that is guaranteed to backfire). HAM is getting worse and worse at saying "I love you" lately. It's so hard for him, even though it's easy for him to show me he loves me in every other way. Why are those words so hard for him to say? I am wearing my hair in pigtails for him RIGHT NOW. I made him soup. I am picking him up from work so he doesn't have to spend money on a cab. I told him today, just like Bryan Adams said, "Everything I do, I do it for you." And it's true - I always want to make him happy and keep him loving me. But he's so weird about just saying those three fucking words, even when he knows how happy it makes me. I mean, I know what makes him happy - pigtails, homemade food, deep-throating, and back massages. I do all of that for him. Why can't he just say "I love you" a few times a day? Why is that such a problem? But whatever, that's besides the point. The real point is I want to go to grad school, I want to be a professor. Becoming a "professional" will only deter me from that path and that sucks hairy balls. So anyway, thanks, Adobe, for making this post so short and wishy-washy. What I really wanted to say was something eloquent and poetic, with deep social underpinnings. But instead, this is it. Damn you, Adobe!

Be aware of my thoughts. That's what I'm supposed to do. What we hear when we're children is absorbed like water into a sponge. As a child, I heard I was fat, and I knew that no one liked me, so my brain equated being thin with being loved. And even though I am currently aware of this and realize that it is illogical, it's been so deeply engrained in me that I have to retrain my brain to believe something different. So the psychiatrist says, "Be aware of your thoughts" and try to stop them. She says I have a bit of body dysmorphic disorder. She says I look great. I showed her the big roll of fat on my stomach but she ignored it. I told her that I can't have dysmorphia if the fat is actually there, but regardless of the fat being there, I want to stop obsessing about it. She says "be aware of your thoughts". I would prefer a quicker fix than hours of therapy and being aware of my thoughts. What about hypnosis? Isn't there something I can do that won't take a long time? I'm tired of this shit. I am so tired of making everyone's life miserable with my constant, "I'm fat" ramblings. No one cares, no one agrees with me, and people resent feeling like they have to tell me I look good when they know I'll just keep saying I'm fat. I don't want people to be annoyed or resentful of me. I don't want people to dislike being around me. I guess I'm more likeable as a fat person with good self-esteem than I fat person with low self-esteem. Surprise! So I just have to accept the giant roll of fat on my stomach and not let it bother me. That just seems impossible. I guess I can at least start with not saying anything out loud. Maybe if I internalize the self-hatred, people won't resent me. God, this is just such bullshit. If only I could just lose the fat, then I wouldn't even have to worry about any of this, because when I'm thin, I know it, and when I know I'm thin, I don't complain about being fat. Therapists assume that it's something I complain about and see in myself no matter how much I weigh or how I look in the mirror, but the reality is that when I am thin, I know it, and I feel better about myself. I don't complain about being fat when I'm not fat. I guess the problem is that my standards for myself are higher than other people's. For me, I need to be in between a size 0 and 2 to feel like I'm thin. For other people, they think I am thin now. However, I am a size 4 now, and this is too big for me. I am a small person, only five foot two and three quarters. I have small bones and a small frame, and I don't need to be 123 pounds. It's too much for me. I should be 115 at maximum. I would prefer to be 110. I think this is reasonable. I'm not trying to be a skeleton, I've been anorexic and don't want to go back there. I like food. I don't want to look like a teenager. I just want to be height/weight proportionate...on the lower end of height/weight proportionate.If you look at the height/weight chart for someone who is five foot two with a small frame, they should weigh in between 108 and 121 pounds. So, I technically am two pounds over weight. And all I want is to be on the lower end of that chart. I don't want to be underweight. And you can ask anyone who knows me - when I'm at my ideal weight, I don't complain about being fat. Does my life get any better when I'm thinner? No, not really. Do I expect it to? No, not really. But it's certainly nice to be able to take my mind off my gut and start focusing on other things, so I guess there is a slight upswing in my quality of life when I am thin. However, there is the burden of trying to maintain that weight, and the fear that one taste of sugar will send me into the downward spiral of cheesecake-induced insanity. But you have to understand, I've spent most of my life as a cute girl, one who gets a lot of attention and double-takes from boys, and, while it may not be as epic as winning a Nobel Peace Prize, it still feels good. It feels great, actually, to be desired, to be "hot". And as I get older, I know that will continue to fade away and I will have to rely on my charm and quick wit to woo others, it's still painfully difficult to let go and let the younger girls have their moment in the spotlight. Like EP (aka Hot Girl), there's this one photograph of us together, and she just looks so radiant and shiny, full of life, almost glowing. And there was me, next to her, pale (literally) in comparison. I look okay, not terrible or anything, but certainly not glowing or shiny. I look dull, lifeless, like limp hair. That's age. EP doesn't tan, doesn't get her hair done, doesn't get her nails done, doesn't do any of the maintenance that I do to stay looking cute, yet she looks amazing next to me. So, shit, I've gotta stay on top of my game. Gotta get that tummy tight, gotta whiten those teeth and bleach that hair. I'm not ready to give up yet. And yet, no matter how thin and pretty I am, I still have no friends. I have one guy who loves me, and I love him, too, but I always wonder why he loves me and when he's going to leave. Sometimes I look at him and think, fuck...this guy is so gorgeous, in such good shape, he looks like a damn Abercrombie & Fitch model. He gets checked out by gay guys everywhere we go (so you know he's hot, because whether a man is gay or straight, you can count on him being superficial and attracted to beautiful things), so what does he see in me? I guess I'm pretty funny. And smart. An airhead, but smart, nonetheless. And he thinks I'm cute. Beautiful, sometimes. So I need to just accept that he loves me, believe that he wants to be with me and that he's not going anywhere (like he says). But I know he doesn't want a fat girl. He hates fat, especially on girls. He wouldn't be able to get a hard-on for a fat girl. So I have to at least stay thin for HAM. If not for the rest of the world, then at least for HAM. So anyway, I'm rambling, it must be time to stop, but the real point of all of this is that I need to be aware of my thoughts and stop them when they are negative because I am pretty awesome, and would be more awesome if I would shut the fuck up about my weight.

I haven't written much in a while. I was on vacation and then of course when I returned to work this week, there was a shit ton of shit to catch up on. HAM is still out of school, so he and I have been spending a lot of time together in the evenings, and, well, the writing gets the back burner I guess. But I haven't forgotten about it and have no intention of giving up. I guess I just took a vacation from everything for a while. Our road trip was eye-opening. We've decided that America is too stupid, too fat, and too meth-addicted to live here. We officially have a plan to move to France. We don't have a plan, actually, but we officially have plans to make a plan. One thing on the agenda is learning French. HAM can use his electives to take French at BC and I can take the classes with him (although I will have to pay full tuition). I want to assimilate into French culture. I don't want to be an American anymore. I am OK with giving up my citizenship here - this place is fucked. The way we treat our animals, our environment, our sick and our poor, the way we treat the world - we are fucked. Any entity that goes on for as long as this one treating the rest of the planet like garbage can't last. Rome fell, America will fall, too. I don't trust this place, I don't trust the government, I don't respect the government, and I'm tired of being in debt because I can't pay my coinsurance. Having insurance is probably the most expensive mistake I've ever made, because it gives you the illusion that you can afford healthcare, when in reality, you get raped in the ass at every turn with lab fees, coinsurance, deductibles, and monthly fees. I can't take it anymore. I'd rather be slowly, gently fucked over time with super high taxes than walk around thinking I'm safe and all of a sudden get raped in the ass with a $400 medical bill that I wasn't expecting. And Obama probably won't get reelected, not that it really matters anyway. Although, it could be worse. I've seen it. We could still be in the Bush years. I miss Clinton. Maybe he was a little dirty, and he did sign NAFTA into effect, which helped degredate the environment and force already suffering third-world countries into even more destitute conditions, but damn, at least we had jobs then. At least we had Al Gore. Now we have no one looking out for the environment, or education, or the future of this country. America is slippin' hard and I don't have any more good reasons to stay. I want to live where animals are treated with dignity and respect, where people are given healthcare as a right and not as privelage, where people are laid back about nudity and sex, where it's okay to enjoy wine and bread, yet not overindulge to the point of addiction and obesity, where being cultured and intelligent is still a good thing, and god damn, I want some of that mediterranean sun.

So my Dad has been in China the whole summer, and when he left, he only asked for a few simple things. One was to get the mail, another to water the plants, and the third was to make sure we didn't get any water on the wood pieces by the stairs because they are unfinished and will stain if any water gets on them. Well, we've been bringing in the mail, we've been watering the plants, and today we discovered that there are water marks all over the unfinished wood! I am just a little bit FREAKING THE FUCK OUT! After work today, we're going to Home Depot, and then Lowe's if necessary, to first see if there is a way to get the stains out, and if not, to have it replaced with identical pieces...I don't believe in God, but in situations such as this one, you better believe I'm praying that we can pull this off. If he comes home to that, it will just be one more reason not to trust me, one more reason that I couldn't possibly care for my own home. We are both totally confused by these stains, too, because, first of all, it's summer and has been relatively dry, and second, we have been extremely careful with the wood. We even moved the plants to the floor to avoid any possible spilling from the watering can. We don't set anything down on the wood. We are very careful to avoid setting anything down on the wood. So how could this happen? We're both at a loss for an explanation. But it sucks, that's the one thing we are both certain of. The other thing is that we are leaving on September 5th for our road trip, and he is getting home that same day, so whatever we do, it has to be done by then, and god, it better be good. If we can't fix this, I won't be able to sleep at night. I don't want to email him about it and have him pissed on his way home and pissed again when he gets home. We have to, I repeat, have to find a way to fix this situation without him ever finding out. My last resort is to take the cat, dip his feet in water, and press his paws into the wood over the water stains to make it look like he did it. My Dad would never get mad at the cat, the cat is his fucking golden child, the son he never had, Mr. Prrrrfect. The little shit. But whatever, it would piss him off, but not nearly as much as it would piss him off if he thought that HAM and I did it. And I'm not into animal abuse, like I wrote recently, I've gone vegan again, but don't put it past me to hold him against his will, dip his feet in water, and press his paws all over that damn wood until he is sure to be 100% framed for the staining of the wood. Of course, I hope it doesn't come to that, I hope there is a more humane resolution to our problem. It's not that my Dad would DO anything to me, it's just the disdain he would have for me, one more reason not to trust stupid, irresponsible BG. BG, always making bad decisions, BG, never able to follow through on her responsibilities, BG, a failure. Maybe this is more my own idea of myself than it is his, but where do you think I got it from? Years of being treated like a dumb girl, because girls are silly and don't really know anything and they can't take care of themselves, and they're certainly not as smart as men. And I don't just experience this with my Dad, but with most men, men in general (with a few exceptions of course). Whatever, they can kiss, my big, smart, responsible, ass.

It's getting harder for me to write lately. I guess because things are going fairly well so I have less to complain about. I still have this underlying fear that HAM is only with me for my money and a place to live, and as soon as he is financially able to move on, he'll go find a younger girl with a bigger butt. He says he loves me, and he says a lot of really sweet things to me, and he's mostly good to me with the occasional making fun of me, but it's never in a mean-spirited way - it's always just playing with me. Even though sometimes I don't like it. So what I mean is, my fear is probably irrational. But then I have this other fear that he really does love me right now, but he'll grow out of this relationship because he's so young and I'll be left close to middle-aged, childless, unmarried, and totally alone. I mean, I suppose it wouldn't be all bad - I could travel to different countries and see the world - something I've always wanted to do. I could move wherever I wanted and I wouldn't have to take anyone else into consideration. I'd probably lose weight because I always lose weight when I'm single. And there are plenty of age-defying tactics available to women these days like botox and whatnot, so I even if I am middle-aged, I don't have to look that way. And sometimes I don't feel 100% happy, because of the teasing. It's really subtle and I'm probably being oversensitive because of past relationships where I was outright abused by men and called horrible names. But I can't talk to him about my past, so if it does bother me, I can't say why. I got him to stop calling me a bird and to stop mimicking my laugh, but he still says other little things...and they are so little I can't even give an example, but I know I don't like how I feel when he says them. But still, that is minor, it's not something to question a relationship over. I love HAM and I want us to stay together. He is absolutely terrified of getting me pregnant. I know he's young and just starting college and it would be terrible timing, and I don't want to have a baby right now either, but I don't think it would be the MOST horrible thing to happen. It would be better than getting Cancer or Aids. Haha, having a baby would be better than contracting AIDS. That's a pretty sad comparison, isn't it? Well, I'm still not sure if I even want to have babies. Part of me thinks, yes, I want kids, a couple, maybe a few, so I have cool adults in my life one day, and someone to take care of me when I'm old. But all that in between time? Like, the baby part would be okay, but then they start to grow and start to develop a personality of their own and then it becomes a neverending battle of wills. Did you go potty? I don't have to go potty. Put your shoes on. I can't find them. You need to wear a coat. I don't want to wear a coat. And then when they get older: You need to be home by eleven. Mom, everyone else's parents let them stay out until midnight! You think you're going out dressed like that? Mom, all the other kids dress like this! You're grounded! I hate you, I wish I was never born! And so on...so basically, I would be okay with a baby, and okay with an adult who lives separately from me, but I don't want a toddler or a teenager or a bitter, resentful 20-something. Can't I just skip all that and just have the good parts of child-rearing? I guess parents think there are more good times than bad, though, and maybe there is something to be said for that. I've never had kids so how would I know how terrible or wonderful it can be? I mean, when I had my dog, he puked every time he went in the car (which was several times a week because of my husband's job), he attacked anything that wasn't human, he was terrified of his own shadow, he was the pickiest eater on the planet, he had horrendous smelling farts, he snored, his breath smelled like rotten poop, and he frequently tried to dry-hump his little sister, but you know what? I loved him no matter what he did, no matter how he smelled or what he ate (he once dug up me and my husband's poop and ate it), no matter how many dogs he attacked, no matter how many times he ran and hid when he heard loud noises, and no matter how many times he puked in the car. I loved him with all my heart. And when he was murdered, my heart broke into a million pieces, never to be fully repaired. So I got his name tattooed on my neck. I loved that dog. I still love that dog. I have a picture of him in my wallet to this day. He was like a child to me, the closest thing I've ever had to a child. So if having children is anything like my relationship with that dog, then I get it. I guess I do get it. Unconditional love.