Writing Doesn't Make Me Feel Better

Last night, even though I was not hungry, I ate half a box of cereal, hoping to get things moving down there.  It was very painful this morning.  I felt like I was being stabbed from the inside-out.  And yes, there was blood again, but only a tiny bit.  Here's to hoping that it's merely stress and a lack of fiber.  *clink*

I'm crying over the stupidest things.  Saturday I gave Lucy two small pieces of cat food and cried.  Sunday, I watched her poop and burst into tears.  Lucy did her thing and trotted off to smell every square inch of the yard.  Prissy always kicked up blades of grass with her hind legs.  Lucy didn't do that and so I cried.

Lucy always preferred Shawn's lap to mine.  His has a "pillow" that my lap wasn't designed with.  Prissy always stretched her body out against mine so that her entire back lay flush with the side of my leg and I'd scratch her belly.  We watched the second X-Men movie for the upteenth time and Lucy stayed in Shawn's lap.  So I cried.  I had no dog at my side.

The house seems quieter.  More empty.  I have no energy.  God, when am I going to feel better?  When am I going to reap my joy?  I think I've sowed enough tears for a thousand joys.