the photos of my lair remind me of 'Barton Fink.'... the faucet picture's from the hulking iron washtub in the basement laundry room... and the tombs, who was sitting right there. the more weight she loses, the bigger her eyes look- she's becoming even more fucking adorable, like some morbid anime. how much less perpetually-tense am I going to feel after she's gone? how much of a fucking monster am I to think things like that?
as I'm slothing on the sofa writing this, she darted off to noisily eat more food. she is a fucking amazing cat. hell, she'll probably outlive me.
the concept of not having her in my life makes me feel sad in an abstractly horrible way. like imagining my best friends or my former loves or my family gone... I just can't. I don't allow myself. it will happen- it HAS happened- and I will be fine, and they will be gone, and it'll be okay. it's the WAITING, the awareness of the inevitability, that's so goddamn daunting.
"the atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. scratch and scratch- until there's no skin left. however, the effect upon me is exhilarating. instead of being discouraged, or depressed, I enjoy it. I am crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack; I want everyone to scratch himself to death." -Henry Miller
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