o, heavenly day
Earlier this morning Einstein tried to jump onto my lap but slipped, in order to avoid hitting the floor in a harmless undignified heap he clung to my arm, after sound cussing and much pain, I wound up with some vaguely questionable-looking scratches on my forearm. Which in and of itself isn't such a remarkable occurrence considering that, well, I have a cat.
But.
I also have a tendency to clumsiness and I'm prone to accidents like cutting my thumb while chopping veggies or something along those lines. Again, nothing note worthy that doesn't happen to everybody and their mamas. I do, however, have this job where I've been seen crying and where people like to assume things out of freaking thin air. Like this mother who came to bring cake for the kiddies and upon looking at the wounds wells scratches on my arm decided to go to the counselor and ask her to see me, the counselor then proceeded to ask about my life, my boyfriend, my career, my family, my potty training everything she could think of to make sure that I was not cutting myself.
Yeah.
I mean, it's understandable, my boyfriend works at a copy shop, my family is spread thing along the entire continent, I'm studying psychology (the forgotten, weaker, lamer cousin twice removed of any kind of natural science) in a university known for it's outstanding (ish) business school, clearly it's gotta be so sad and depressing being me. Clearly self-harm is the natural conclusion.
I wonder what would have happened had I attempted to hide the scratches, or hey, if I didn't have pictures of my cat all over the place in my cellphone. Might have gotten institutionalized right then and there.
Fortunately the counselor saw things for what they were (classicist paranoia, mostly) and let me off the hook. Things were then improved further when checking the flist and finding lovely things such as winterlive making people happy out of the goodness of her heart, Mr POTUS and Mr VPOTUS being kind of awesome (as usual) and, oh yeah, this.
Comments owed and emails to reply to will have to wait until I've showered. Please, before you leave, do take a moment of your time to love on my new icon, thank you.
But.
I also have a tendency to clumsiness and I'm prone to accidents like cutting my thumb while chopping veggies or something along those lines. Again, nothing note worthy that doesn't happen to everybody and their mamas. I do, however, have this job where I've been seen crying and where people like to assume things out of freaking thin air. Like this mother who came to bring cake for the kiddies and upon looking at the wounds wells scratches on my arm decided to go to the counselor and ask her to see me, the counselor then proceeded to ask about my life, my boyfriend, my career, my family, my potty training everything she could think of to make sure that I was not cutting myself.
Yeah.
I mean, it's understandable, my boyfriend works at a copy shop, my family is spread thing along the entire continent, I'm studying psychology (the forgotten, weaker, lamer cousin twice removed of any kind of natural science) in a university known for it's outstanding (ish) business school, clearly it's gotta be so sad and depressing being me. Clearly self-harm is the natural conclusion.
I wonder what would have happened had I attempted to hide the scratches, or hey, if I didn't have pictures of my cat all over the place in my cellphone. Might have gotten institutionalized right then and there.
Fortunately the counselor saw things for what they were (classicist paranoia, mostly) and let me off the hook. Things were then improved further when checking the flist and finding lovely things such as winterlive making people happy out of the goodness of her heart, Mr POTUS and Mr VPOTUS being kind of awesome (as usual) and, oh yeah, this.
Comments owed and emails to reply to will have to wait until I've showered. Please, before you leave, do take a moment of your time to love on my new icon, thank you.