If you’re old enough to be cool, you know I’m quoting Bill Cosby. Apparently, if my dog were capable of growing up to be a comedian herself, she’d be able to tell a very similar tale about growing up thinking her name was goddamnit. She’s more likely to come to that than to her own stupid name.

I’m defending my PhD proposal tomorrow (notice the word proposal there; it’s unbelievable how many of you wankers gloss right over that detail when I answer your stupid “Why are you so stressed” questions and you go “Oh wow your dissertation?! So you’re almost done!” and I have to spend 15 seconds in my happy place trying not to strangle you with your own tongue), taking a procrastination break right now from my pile o’ PowerPoint slides to share this thought. Between this presentation, the attendant proposal document extracted from my rectum last week, and the security studies program final research paper and presentation hammered out for the three weeks prior to that, I’ve spent quite a bit of time wrestling with Microsoft Office products to put complex thoughts into pretty, digestible form. This is not, of course, what Office was designed for; it was designed to crash, to misplace figures, to AutoFormat in the exact opposite direction of your creative intent, and let’s not forget to harass you with an obnoxious talking paperclip.

Needless to say, there’s been quite a bit of profanity reverberating through my household.

My dog’s been rather discombobulated by the irregular sleep hours; she likes to be near me a lot, and for about 22 hours a day that means being somewhere the lights are turned on and keys are being tapped, so she’s definitely not getting her beauty rest. Occasionally she’ll decide that darkness is more important than proximity, and she’ll slink off to the next room to catch a few Z’s away from all the activity. But sure enough, Microsoft will do it to me again, and I’ll let fly with some verbal abuse goddamnit! because of this MF’ing POS A-hole program bastard WTF!

*Poof!* The dog reappears under my legs, or trying to slither into my lap using only her chin as if her front legs had gone totally limp. “Calm down, girl, you’re fine. You’re a good girl.” She just sits there staring at me, shifting on her hindquarters every few seconds as her lack of friction on the hardwood floor thwarts her attempt to be pressed firmly up against me, and giving a big sorry look like she just threw up on my down comforter. (Again.) (Yes.) (I know!) “Seriously, Sarah, good girl. You’re okay. It’s the computer box, not you.” *Pathetic stare.* “You’re a GOOD GIRL. Now piss off!” *Pathetic stare with fidget.* “SARAH, GOOD GIRL, BUT GO BE A GOOD GIRL SOMEWHERE ELSE. GO! GO BE GOOD! GO AWAY! GOOD GIRL AWAY!”

I’m not paying for a therapist, I don’t care what happens.



Read more filed under Homelife, The Dogfather