And stuff still isn't unpacked and the house is a mess and the library isn't painted and one of the cats is acting out in that unfortunate urinary fashion that cats have, and took out a couple of prints and a t-shirt in the process, and it's a damn good thing I didn't catch him in the act or I'd be taking him down to the river with a sack and a large rock.* (I suspect I know who it was, and in fairness, he's the whipping boy for the entire household, so I don't think it's so much an acting out or a bladder problem as a "If I go to a litter box, somebody is lying in wait and will smack me around." He is low-cat on the totem pole, and if anybody gets grumpy at anybody else, ultimately Winston gets smacked. He really needs a new home with only one or two other cats, rather than our horde, so if anybody's looking for a young neutered male, good with cats, dogs, and kids, offers no violence to anyone...)
Anyway. I am at the end of my rope today, because of all the frazzlement, and yet I feel guilty about it because my life is so good in many ways, what right do I have to feel like One More Thing will send me into a killing rage?
Does that make any sense?
*Okay, okay, you KNOW I'd never do that, but goddamnit, you pee on my stuff at your peril...