I gave The Admiral some tuna tonight, to celebrate our fourteenth anniversary. He bit my thumb while devouring it. The inherent risks of playing with a predatory animal.
As a great man said, "I think cats are the most beautiful things."
Dodging the "family" holidays does give me some satisfaction.
I figured out a long time ago that family is like the appendix: most people are born with one. Some live their whole lives with it, others have it removed when it becomes a problem. Sometimes it ruptures and kills.
If I could I'd stop dreaming. My unconscious and I have never been what anyone would call "close", and lately we've come to an unpleasant sort of standoff. Between alternate pasts and impossible futures, I have no taste for illusions in my sleep.
I want my rest to be restful. It's a reasonable desire.
I don't know why people find it so unusual that I'm trying to memorize all of The Waste Land.
After all, it combines my love of memorizing things, obscure references, unreliable narrators, and fatalism into a few hundred lines. I've memorized far longer things; the lyrics to any given album are longer. You just can't dance to The Waste Land. Although you should try.
I'm quite honestly not sure if the passive rejection of not getting an answer online is better or worse than the active rejection of being turned down in person.
Setting aside the naive fantasy where neither would happen, I am left with a world where both are both real and prevalent. I don't much care for it.
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