Kitten Chronicles aka Blog Post Filler

No! I’m not posting pictures of my foster kittens because I don’t have enough time to write up a quality post! It’s not like I’m miserably – nay – hopelessly behind on my senior thesis. It’s not like these last few weeks I’ve been privileging writing my blog over my school work and thus, now have to scramble to make up for lost time. STOP SUGGESTING THESE TRUE THINGS, PEOPLE OF THE INTERWEBS.

My Dad suggested I stop the blog for a while. I immediately said, “LOLZ, Dad, NO!”

Except I didn’t. I just never texted him back because I actually considered his suggestion for a half-second. I’ve overloaded on classes so that I graduate on-time (ish), I’m taking all writing-intensive courses, and have taken up learning to fiddle on roofs (much different from regular fiddling).

But, in that half-second, I realized I can’t stop.

I MUST GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT.

Okay, so here are pictures of my kittens, Loki and Thor, in lieu of substance. Sorry. (Not sorry.)

005

008

019

023

003

- Daughter

 

 

About these ads

They Have Arrived: KITTENS

My apartment is now home to a mother cat (tentatively named Ginger Rogers) and her two crazy kittens whom we have named Loki and Thor. We don’t know their sexes yet but my kittens don’t subscribe to conventions like gender roles so it’s a moot point; they’re trailblazers in borderline gender identities in the feline community.

Ginger Rogers seems very displeased about the arrangement and Loki and Thor seem confused but content. On the way home from the shelter, all three went into a cardboard carrier. Ginge was not happy about this and shoved herself into a corner of the box, asking herself how she had gotten here. Knocked up at only one year old, the father not even in the picture… what was she doing with her life? But the kittens were quite the opposite: trampling all over each other in a brave attempt to discover the marvels of this cardboard wonderland.

L and T are completely unaware of their mother’s disdain for their existence as evidenced by their use of her body as a trampoline and a launching pad. That’s their main form of exercise besides clawing their way up my body via my clothes, using their claws as tiny, adorable grappling hooks.

Below are grainy, fuzzy photos of Loki, Thor, and Ginger Rogers. Sorry about the horrible quality. They were taken at night and the kittens would not stay still and pose even when I prompted them with encouraging comments, “Show me some personality, Loki! You’re a Norse god for Pete’s sake, SELL IT TO ME!!!”

Tomorrow, expect  high quality photos!

photo (2)

Right out of the can, no manners.

Right out of the can, no manners.

NOM.

NOM.

 

- Daughter

Panic and Freak Out Mode

I feel like this baby snow leopard shoved into a bowl, weighed in a clinical cold environment with no hope of understanding the goings-on of life.

I feel like this baby snow leopard shoved into a bowl, weighed in a clinical and cold environment with no hope of understanding the goings-on of life.

I am beginning to feel a tightening in my chest and it’s not the drugs since I don’t do them currently. I’m also fairly certain it’s not heart burn because I don’t remember eating bacon or grease-laced food stuffs. I did watch Paula Deen’s cooking show so it could be heart burn through osmosis (the episode was called “Butter My Butt and Call Me a Biscuit”). But there’s just no way Paula could be the cause of this strange sensation…

It’s anxiety. Welcome back, my old friend.

Why am I anxious? I’m leaving for school and the impending departure is beginning to take a toll on my nerves, guys. Well, more like full-on panic-mode has been engaged. There are 93439578940274389573243 things I must accomplish and exactly -4 hours to accomplish them. The pent-up stress is starting to manifest itself in a myriad of ways:

1) Starbucks. I’ve always been a sucker for wasting my money this place, but in times of duress, I immediately go here to get my foamy fix of sweet nothings. I get something fancy to make myself feel less poor (I’m ironic like that). Buying coffee from Starbucks also fulfills my New Year’s resolution to contribute to sprawling corporations. Two birds, one expensive fu stone.

2) Social life death. “I’m really, really tired. I think I’m going to leave and go to bed.” I have said this at least ten times in the past week. It’s very sad. I’m sorry, friends! I have to be home to pace around and panic, it’s very time-consuming.

3) Obsessive nail-painting. Because it helps me relax, okay??!!!! Breath in, paint, breathe out, paint. *nail polish goes onto skin* SONOFA [bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep].

4) No patience with customers. Today, a customer returned some biscotti that I specifically helped her find. I went through a lot of trouble to get it for her. If my memory serves me correctly, I left my post to get her stupid cookies in the middle of a huge Christmas line that wrapped its way around the store, an overfed, swollen snake of capitalism (?), and then rummaged through a section to give her four different options. I almost cried a little bit when she laughed and said she was returning them. I really wanted to dump out the biscotti, crumble them up, and then throw it at her and say, “It’s a new service we’re offering, cookie confetti!!!” But I didn’t. I just stared at her soulless, beady eyes and allowed myself to emit a grumbly noise of displeasure. This doesn’t seem like I lost my patience, but in terms of customer service, I committed a grave sin. I’m not even sorry.

5) List-making. It makes me feel good inside.

How lists make me feel: like a baby polar bear.

How lists make me feel: like a baby polar bear.

6) Packing habits. Usually, packing is a series of justifications and rationalizations with the end result being frustration and deciding to pack my entire closet regardless of necessity. A typical inner monologue goes like this:

Do I really need three swimsuits? It’s going to be 20-30 degrees for the first two months in Pennsylvania and only warm enough for swimming maybe the last three weeks. But wait, if I bring three, that’s means there’s enough to wear one a week, meaning I wouldn’t even have to do laundry! Three it is. 

This time around, my packing is a manifestation of my psychological stress. It has brought out very scary, uncontrollable OCD-like tics. I put one item in the suitcase, I take three out. I re-arrange a sock, decide it is aesthetically displeasing, and re-position it until I get it into a  perfect location. I get into the suitcase, go into the fetal position, and rock back and forth while crying to myself quietly. Seriously, there is something about packing right now that makes me sad.

Sad kitty is sad.

Sad kitty is sad. 

Time to go drink my feelings away. At the bar Starbucks.

- Daughter

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.
The Esquire Theme.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 502 other followers

%d bloggers like this: