Squirt is still with us. He’s consistently below five pounds now and his legs collapse every couple of steps. But he’s still eating and getting where he needs to go with no signs of pain. He can’t get in and out of the litter box very well, but puppy piddle pads (brand is called lil squirts!!) are working just fine.
There was a cup of water in my hallway.
I stepped over it several times before I realized I should probably pick it up. Once more, before I gathered the motivation.
I have a ton of new readers (or at least new Facebook followers who I hope will be readers). I think normal people would be excited about that. I, on the other hand, am suddenly gripped with an inability to write anything because what if they hate me? I think most of you have gotten here via the “The Dishes Can Wait” essay, which was sort of my pinnacle of sarcasm, hyperbole, and snark.
I have this recurring stress dream where my favorite band is playing in town and I don’t know it until it’s almost too late. Sometimes I miss the show, sometimes I barely make it. Sometimes I’m in my underwear. Like you do.
A couple of days ago, I was cheering to some friends that my therapist will be back from maternity leave soon. A friend responded, “Party down to sanity town!”
Tales of a First Grade Basket Case
I’m astoundingly good at taking my own experiences and anxieties, and making them into new anxieties about Lorelei’s experiences. I’m like a fucking anxiety superhero or something.
It starts as scattered seeds — kernels anchored by anxiety and waiting for the right conditions to sprout. Some days they are fertilized by memories. Some days by fear. Most often they germinate themselves, arriving with a lunchbox of sunlight and water as they feed one another.