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.
more “My Cat Lost His Marbles”
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.
Read more on Across the Margin…
When she tells me to do something, I feel like she is talking down to me. I don’t know if she really is, but it probably doesn’t matter, because she’s spoken to me in this manner so many times that I can’t erase how she’s treated me from my mind to discern what is past and what is present. Even if she’s not talking down to me now, I know she’s spoken down to me before, and she never apologized, so it’s kind of a moot point, this bullshit side effect of paranoid schizophrenia where I tell myself I’m perceiving things incorrectly because I’m fucking crazy.
more “1: Paranoia”
I am finding it difficult to connect with people with age. It could be a personal problem. It is never my intention to blame a behavior flaw on my mental illness in an effort to make excuses. I hate when people do that. When they ask people to be empathetic towards them because they have a mental illness. I don’t believe in special treatment; I believe in special abilities.
more “I Don’t Hate You; I’m Schizophrenic”
As an author, in order to sell books, among other things, I have a responsibility to be on multiple social media platforms every day. That doesn’t mean, though, that I like to. The responsibility is just that: a responsibility, like doing the dishes, or going to work, neither of which I necessarily want to do. I’m not on nearly enough of the various platforms as consistently as I need to be, but there are so many that I can’t keep up. But I am active on the sites that anyone who hasn’t been living under a rock for the last twenty years would recognize by name, unfortunately. Truthfully, I don’t like how Facebook encourages its users to argue with each other with the reply feature and tagging feature (why not tag your friends to fight your argument for you?!). Twitter is not a great place to make genuine connections anymore, with the hundreds of auto direct messages I get and the link dump on my feed and even on my notifications (some authors think it’s acceptable to mention me with their book links and blog posts without asking me first).
more “Instagram is the Happiest Place in the (Internet) World”