One of the most wild changes I’d anticipated but wasn’t quite ready for upon crash-landing NYC>ATL: Prices.
When the check arrives after dinner or drinks I’ll scoop and flip it. “Ahh,” I hum, laying my card in the pleather booklet. “Umm,” fellow diners in our booth. “Is that…? How much was my portion?”
Yeah, so that isn’t how much my individual bill totaled. That’s for eight people, not one person. Everyone! And I’m left with a table full of new friends that either think I’m a pompous/deranged asshole for volunteering to pay on a freelancer’s budget or something more like a profoundly abused baby deer.
"Sweetie! You know that’s not normal, right?" they coo, returning my worn debit card and taking only a $10 bill.
Gosh, I hope I stop doing that.
Send good vibes, gang. Ryan Catwood was just diagnosed with pancreatitis. The vet told me this comes with a charming reassurance called a guarded prognosis, which basically means there is no confident cure possible. I can give her some more antibiotics and put her on a grain-only diet, but that isn’t necessarily make permanent positive change. The disease can survive that.
She gave me some appetite-stimulant (anorexia is a major symptom) to try and told me to contact the emergency vet for more IVs since her clinic was closing early.
Basically, I have already spent almost a month’s rent on temporary fixes and no helpful answers. The past week, all Ryan really does is sleep and occasionally stir to soak the couch in bile. She wails like she’s in pain but I can’t do anything to pacify her. She can’t be happy right now.
It’s breaking my heart and I don’t really know what to do.