Moca

My kitten is so damned cute. And suicidal. She's two and a half pounds of fluff and energy, which she uses to pounce on Gonk and Domino and has earned her the nickname "Rocket Pants." Domino has figured out that if she stays on top of the washer nothing can hurt her. Gonk is retardedly trying to cling to his dignity and go about his daily routine. They snarl and hiss when she's being really annoying, but she doesn't speak Cat and thus is not frightened one bit. That, or she has no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. I'm not really sure how describe her personality except as manic. She purrs as soon as you touch her, she loves belly rubs, and she follows us room to room like the big kitties do, so I'm hoping she'll be a cuddler someday. If not, well, I can always mail her to Abu Dhabi, like in the Bugs bunny cartoons. That always worked well.

Forest Spirit

This Week's Tally

Tape Deck: 2 Me: 0
Oven Timer: 2 Me: 0
Computer: 3 Me: 0
Toaster: 0 Me: 2 Ha ha! Take that, bitch! Take it all!
Turn Signal: 1 Me: 0

Machines: 8 Me: 2

I feel like I'm being primed for when robots rule the Earth.

Writer's Block

I'm doing something I didn't think I'd do again.

I'm writing fiction. For fun.

A few weeks ago I was washing dishes and listening to a story on All Things Considered about how adults don't draw for fun, but they should. I thought about how I still sometimes draw for fun, and didn't think the story was really relatable, and pitied the poor inhibited bastitches. Then I thought of things I'd given up when I realized I wouldn't make money at it: playing piano, photography, writing. I used to write all the time, and not just the horrible poems I posted. Mostly short stories, but I also had ideas for novels, and I scribbled out a very, very rough draft for one of them my senior year. Two of my high school teachers encouraged me to pursue an English or Writing Degree, but I never did, though I published a short story in a college literary magazine. The last time I actively wrote was the summer after my freshman year of college. I even had a few sleepovers with Velocibadgergirl where we holed up in my room with the stereo playing and a candle* burning, writing our hearts out. I was such a dork. And I loved it.

Then I just...stopped. I composed a few poems sophomore year of college, but the spark was out. I felt uninspired for the first time since I was literate. As soon as I learned to write, I authored a book. In the first grade I scrawled a really long story about journeying to a kingdom made of diamonds and my ensuing adventures. There were unicorns, I remember. I threw it out in the fifth grade, and I wish I still had it because I'm sure I'd laugh my ass off if I reread it. I wrote and illustrated my second book in the third grade, which I still have somewhere. It features a dragon. I'm pretty sure there's a unicorn mentioned, but I'm not certain.

So, I'm writing. No, you cannot see it. At least, not unless 1) it's done and 2) you're one of my best friends and 3) you promise to not hurt my feelings when I ask you how you liked it. I'm open to a writing-themed slumber party, though. I'll even supply the pillows and cookies.


*When I burned a certain purple candle, I wrote better. I saved it, just to remember how much fun I used to have.

Karma

I don't really believe in karma, I haven't seen enough proof that one gets what one deserves to truly believe. But I didn't write that I don't believe, I wrote that I don't really believe. I still find anecdotal evidence for it, like my sister's daughter Dolly. Having to raise your clone seems pretty karmic to me. The latest anecdotal evidence for it is ending up with exactly what I was trying to avoid. I did not want a third cat. I did not ever want a long-haired cat. I planned on always adopting grown cats. Guess what's living in my solarium?





Right now I'm telling people we're fostering with the option to adopt. See, on April 20th my brother was visiting our mom's grave and found her. He took her to the vet the following day for treatment for her respiratory infection and get checked for feline leukemia and the like. He called me immediately to ask if I was interested in adopting her, to which I wholeheartedly responded NO. Two weeks later our other brother Job moves back to their house, and he's allergic to cats, so he had to find her a home right away. MacGyver had already asked me to make her his birthday present*. We've had her since Saturday. He did agree that we'll find her another home if she is a jerk or if Gonk and Domino hate her. Honestly, I think I'm stuck with her. Fortunately, she is so damn cute, and she hasn't been acting like a jerk yet. Mostly she plays with string and pounces on little pieces of cardboard. She's 10 weeks old and weighs 1.5 pounds, 75% of her volume is fluff. My brother called her Wheezie, but we're discussing other names. I'm pushing for MoCa (or Moca). Her black hairs have a cinnamon cast, kind of like mocha, but MoCa stands for Mobile Cactus. If you've handled kittens, you know what I mean.

*All he wants for his birthday is a little pussy.

Happy 42nd Anniversary, Mom and Dad!

In this photo, mom was around my current age and pregnant with my sister. I love this photo because they are standing in a way that is staged, but their happiness looks so spontaneous. Also, I was born about 13 years later, so these are people I love but never knew at this stage in their lives. When I look at this picture my heart aches and sings at the same time.

Many thanks to Evil Ducky for repairing and ameliorating the original photograph.