There's one thing in this world that I really can't stand. And it's not having to keep working at the Shack, and putting in tiring hours. It's not being tired, it's not the time or the pressure or the monotony of my new weekends. I was supposed to get some time to go out with Shannon, have a nice dinner, and spend time together before she left for school. For three weeks she'll be up there, class three hours a day for fifteen class days. Reading, typing, no one she knows. Let's just say that tonight was important, and it was supposed to be really good. Instead, I was in a bad mood after I got out of work, and I was testy, and I snapped at Shannon because she wouldn't decide where to go to dinner. I felt like she was blaming me for my work schedule when she told me that I didn't leave her with many options. I totally freaked out, screamed, jammed my clutch. I was being an asshole. And this happened last weekend. And the weekend before. Am I sensing a trend? Are you? Because I've been cranky the last two Saturdays before this one. And it eats me alive when Shannon cries. The guilt involved is enough, but it's not just that, either. It's that it's my fault when it happens. Mine, and mine alone. I get that weird feeling in my stomach, like it's being held in a pair of vice grips. My eyes water in reaction. I want to cry with her, but because the masculine side of me takes over momentarily, I force myself not to. I put on the cold shoulder to prove a point that never really exists. It eats me alive, much like it did tonight, and it only eats me alive because I love her. And it hurts worse that somehow, someway, the good and the bad come full circle.