My Cat Lost His Marbles

His balls. My cat lost his balls. (Some people are sensitive about this kind of stuff. Trigger Warning: BALLS)

Since I adopted Ronan in the setting of a drug deal gone horribly wrong – dark parking lot by myself, didn’t get any drugs but got a kitten! – he has served as the gentlest, most nurturing animal that ever existed. It’s been a stressful year since the man I love had to move to Hawaii for three months (just a couple weeks after I got Ronan) and many other stressful things happened that don’t necessarily need to be said  on the Internet, but Ronan has never complained. I had to give up his kitty friend Gansey (who I also adopted at the time) because he didn’t play nice with my four-year-old Ella (another cat, not a kid) which started the endless fights between Ronan and Ella, not because Ronan is an asshole, but because Ella is kind of an asshole (I love her dearly but she is), but Ronan never complained. He laid* with me every night as I cried because The Man was however many miles it is from California to Hawaii and he perched on my shoulder like a meowing parrot when he was a baby and when we moved instead of freaking out and hiding like Ella would he jumped into the window and looked at Kona The German Husky in the backyard and squeaked, as he does, as if to say, HOLY SHIT MOM WTF IS THAT.

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To Breathe You In

I look out at the water crushing its own dreams. It’s dark. The lights along the pier are not bright enough to illuminate its pollution-ridden surface and the full moon is hiding somewhere behind the smog. I’m squatting because everything I’m wearing is new, including my shoes.

“Dangggg baby, back at it again with the maroon Vans,” he says.

I laugh. He makes me laugh a lot, and it’s not one of those laughs you push out in your day job to humor someone, while plotting to kill them. You only hear this brand of sound after 5 PM and on weekends.

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I’m Worried About You

//As seen on Psychology Today

I don’t know how to deal with my loved ones being worried about me. Well, I do, but it’s probably not the right way: to just assure the people that love you that you are okay even if you’re not. I’m not saying that I’m not okay, in this case, but that is the standard response.

I’ve talked a lot about the controversial “how are you” question and how it’s only socially acceptable to provide “good and yourself?” as a response. My friend and I have joked about answering “you know what, I’m having a really hard time…” and going into your life story when some random person on the street or in the elevator asks you how you’re doing. It makes people uncomfortable, you know. The truth. People, specifically in corporate America, don’t want to know if you feel like shit. If you’re having a difficult time with life. They ask to be courteous but they really aren’t being courteous at all, because they don’t actually care how you’re doing. Most, anyway. Some do. I have to give credit to good friends and good people, in general, who do actually want to know the real answer. But for the others, who expect the illustrious “I’m great how are you doing?!” and want nothing less, I really don’t know why they even bother asking. It’s a completely useless exchange.

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