Fuck.
I got a call that my job is being eliminated.
Fuck.
To clarify, my job was about six to nine hours a week, eight dollars an hour. It was pretty much just paying half of my gas, a little extra food, and unnecessary Amazon purchases. I still live with my parents, I'm sure they'll pick up the other half of my gas... you guys don't need to worry about me losing anything crucial.
But still.
I loved that damn job. I got paid to work with animals, guys. Do you even understand that? I loved it there. It wasn't perfect, and to be honest, I have my suspicions that part of the reason the budget doesn't support keeping my position around is that the practice manager, while lovely, isn't exactly trained for the financial side of running a veterinary practice. I'm not angry, 'cause I know that it's been tough to keep the practice running recently. I just. I don't know.
And for some reason, the thing that's bothering me the most is that I haven't seen Sandy, Priscilla the secretary's poodle, in a couple weeks, and I was going to see him tomorrow. I love that dog.
Just. Fuck.