If watching Clint Eastwood paw Meryl Streep doesn't get me going, I mean, nothing will...

Sometimes I think there is something wrong with me: some little part of me inside that has bent or snapped or been worn down from a lifetime of me being, you know, kind of a pussy. Today I had to conduct a lengthy, heart-wrenching interview for work: an interview I have been dreading for days because I knew it would be hard. I had expected, and tried to prepare myself, for tears - my own. I knew the subject matter was liable to upset me and I just wanted to get through the interview in one piece and not embarass myself by crying, even if that meant bawling in my car afterwards. Hold it together, Kate, I was thinking as I walked through the door. And... I didn't cry. At all. I didn't even come close to crying. The woman I was interviewing cried - something that usually sets me off - and I didn't even tear up. It wasn't that I didn't feel anything - I felt sad for her, frustrated on her behalf and even (yes I sicken myself) a little excited by how goddamn QUOTABLE she was. But I didn't cry and it wasn't a matter of holding myself together in the moment because I didn't cry on the drive back to the office either. I'm not crying as I write this now. I do not plan or expect to cry about this later. Am I dead inside? Has something inside me snapped off, like the internal cog of a clock that no longer quite connects with the cog next to it, rendering me unable to react to something awful in an appropriate way? I don't know about that but I do know one way to find out, Yes, that's right: Bridges of Madison County I am coming for you.

NOTE: The spacing on this post has been all fucked up into one giant paragraph for some reason. I have no idea what's going on and I'm too fucking tired to care. Tomorrow Kate: I'm leaving this problem for you to fix.