Oh. Oh, honey. This week is not a good week to fuck with me.

For all that I do have an interweb blog and a cracked brain-to-mouth filter, I understand the concept of privacy and believe that some lines should not be crossed.

I do not document my interpersonal interactions here or elsewhere, out of respect for others. I don't believe the details of my relationships, friend or lover or coworker or family, should be for public consumption. Yeah, there are exceptions, but usually something extreme has to occur for me to make my feelings public. For example, the Rachel situation. I've gotta be crying in a restaurant bathroom stall in another city before I'll mention freely that something yeah-maybe-kinda had a negative effect on my emotions.

I'm way more emotional than I want to be, and certainly feel more than I'll ever willingly admit. It doesn't mean that I'm going to have a meltdown every time something gets under my skin. And you most certainly got under my skin. Not in the heated-shiver discomfort-arousal way, more in the flesh-eating-scarab-from-The-Mummy way.

Rule number one of trying to influence me? Don't ever fucking guilt trip me. Your assumption of my pliability will come crashing down around your ears faster than you can say "pity party."

Of all the things I've been accused of, having the magical ability to "turn off" my feelings surprises me the most. Ooh, or even better, the ability not to feel at all.

Of course I don't display everything openly. It's my job to be the calm one. It's my job to stay coolheaded, to be in control of unpleasant and emotionally charged situations because no one else is willing to. I deal extremely well with emergencies and tragedies because not everyone can afford to fall apart at the seams and dissolve into a wailing useless mess.

You want to know what my job was last week? I was the one took the listless backyard-bred parvo puppy out of the sobbing little girl's arms while her mom honked into a tissue. I held the two-pound fluffy Cockapoo while the vet tried to find a vein in his neck, since the cephalic vein was too dehydrated to use. I cradled him in my hands while the vet listened for a heartbeat. I was the one who wrapped him in a towel, put him in a cardboard box, put the box in the outstretched arms of the tear-streaked girl, turned away as she pressed the box to her chest.

Don't ever accuse me of "not feeling," asshole.

I'm under no obligation to placate, appease, or coddle you. Your feelings are your responsibility, not mine. Deal with it.