Two steps forward...

I think we all know how that ends.  One step back.  And I have taken a giant step back.

My life involves tax season for three months out of every year.  Three months of 60 hour weeks.  Three months of irregular eating, sleeping, and exercising.  Three months of almost no time to relax.  It begins to wear you down, gobble you up, spit you out.  To add to it, I'm studying for the hardest part of my exams.  So on my one day per week off, I study.  Almost all day.  To add to that, we recently found out our beloved rat terrier has cancer.  Nasty cancer.  The kind furbabies don't generally recover from.  I'm devastated.  My diet has taken a back seat.  My fitness has taken a back seat.  My time to myself has taken a back seat.

I want to stop feeling guilty about slipping during such trying times, but I can't.  I would like to just be proud of the fact that I haven't started smoking again or drinking too much again.  But I can't.  I hate myself and am generally fed up with the fact that every time I try to get my sh*t in order, life creeps up and whallups me with a two-by-four.  Then puts me in a burlap sack.  Then ties me to the back of its rusty old Ford pickup and drags me down some old, rocky road.  Then abandons me out by some hillbilly shack with a mean-looking dog only haphazardly tied up outside.

I don't have time to cook like I like, and I don't feel like it even if I do.  All I want when I come home to my poor, stitched-up, cancer-riddled dog is to curl up with him and some comfort food and watch something mindless.  I hate myself for that, but there's really nothing I can do about it until I gather up my strength to face the mean-looking dog, knock out the hillbillies, steal their dusty blue Pinto, drive back to town, stop at the lumber yard for a four-by-four, confront life, and kick its ass.