Gee, I'm in print again, after approximately a billion years. February Cat Fancy article. And one of my sources called the editor to request my address so she could send me flowers. Given my schedule, I okayed the release of elflet's address instead. Still, it's better than being roasted on all the BSH mailing lists, which was also a possibility. And I suppose I should keep tear sheets, in case I wake up one morning with a deep desire to market myself as a nonfiction writer. (Boy, that'd be a weird morning.)

While trying to return a carrier to my friend Jennifer, I ran into my old vet, Dr. Andy Staatz, which was a pleasant surprise. This also started me considering (not for the first time) whether I want to go back to school in order to apply for vet school. Oy. This link, (courtesy of lusty) which turned up at just the right time, reminded me of a few things I didn't know, but this one is far too familiar:

"Being smarter doesn't make answering The Question ["What should I do with my life?"] easier."

See, when I last talked with Molly, I started out asking about my rediscovered binge eating, and instead got handed the question "What am I becoming?" (My sessions with Molly tend to start with me wailing about whatever has me on edge currently, and then they get more intestinal and messy from there. elflet has lovely fluffy uplifting conversations with her; I've heard him. I don't know how he does it, though.) I'd rather not ponder this question; I'd rather do almost anything else that isn't actively painful. It suggests to me that there are other responsibilities that I need to take up, which is inevitably followed by guilt that I'm not already doing whatever. And I already feel overburdened by what I've already generated or suggested or agreed to or taken up. I need to cut DOWN, not accept more.

Anyway, I shall discuss this with Molly on the morrow. Or, I mean, later today. This has been enough half-baked post-work rambling for one session.