ruminations

Sometimes I wish being a boy were more. . .dramatic maybe? Liberating? The reality is that even though the boy Charlie is happier, calmer, better adjusted, there has been no revolution. Change in life happens slowly, and yet. . .there has been no shocking revelation. Except maybe now I can grow up. Even though I was never suicidal, I was pretty convinced I'd never hit twenty. Mid-college seemed about the right place to just stop. Going to France staved that off pretty well, but since I killed off my boy-self when I came back, I lost a lot of what made me real. I think maybe I'm ready to be real again?

RIP, Xandercat

My mom's cat died today. He was six and a half. She thinks he got into some antifreeze or something. She found him lying outside, limp but warm. . .and he threw up on the way to the vet, and then he just was gone. He was my big, gray, long-haired, polydactyl monsterkitten. When he was a baby, his coat didn't really shine yet because he was so fluffy, and he would hide under the bed and he looked like a giant dust bunny. When he got older, he used to climb down the side of our house, which was sided with rough wood shingles. He'd jump off the second-story porch and go down, and you could hear him thinking "Spider-Cat! I am Spider-Cat!"
I loved him very much. Not feeling eloquent about it, but. . .I loved him.