just more fur in the sunlight

I walked on the beach like that, once.

At least, one time of which there is photographic evidence.

All of these people with their shining sand and their long legs practically dangling their perfect feet, skin that’s like bronze except it looks warmer, like if you trapped heat in the shapes of girls; the hairs on their heads come together like a glowing swirl of oil paint, designed to reproduce the wind or the sea or something else you can’t conceive or shut up about. That’s all there is.

My body doesn’t produce freckles.

In the early morning I awaken six or seven times because I know I’ve set at least that many alarms to fend off or (probably) exacerbate my paranoia. Finally, I drag my possible legs out of bed for keeps.

The morning is abbreviated because I’ve let it become that way, but still I give the self-that-is-mine in the mirror a moment of contemplation about my choice to wear a cheetah print bra with zebra print underpants.

Is that okay?

It doesn’t bear thinking about. I move on. A day of going and being and returning and being. There are no cheetahs here, even sunbeams are rare. Sometimes I think the house-cat looks full of stars, when the light catches the dust motes caught in her fur.

But then again, what do I know. My underwear’s probably been chasing itself around all day.


Cat in a box

It’s just that it’s stupid, is all.

The whole thing.

It’s designed, obviously, by people who think it should be this way, which isn’t exactly fair to those of us who think it should be, like, a different way.

It maddens me that I can’t put words on a page, literal or metaphorical (the page, I mean, since there isn’t actually a literal “page” right now that I’m writing on here [except that it’s become the common vernacular to call a webpage a page so actually this parenthetical nightmare is all for nought]) and feel like there’s anything happening as a result of it. It’s maddening. I’m maddened.

The cat’s making a ruckus in her litterbox. I’ve made the bold choice to put her litterbox behind a door, so I live in constant fear of the unknown. The “unknown” being, what the heck she’s doing in there that’s making such a ruckus.

Is it boring, for me to talk about my cat like this? Am I a boring person?

In a state of light despair, I take to the information superhighway– a very smart young man once told me that a person must “take responsibility for [her] clich├ęs” and not insert quotation marks around them, so I’m not going to do that, though I will place quotation marks around his sensible, articulate advice (obviously) since I have no business taking responsibility for that– hunting and pecking like a frustrated chicken for that most elusive of destinations, a freakin’ job that doesn’t suck already.

That’s not really fair because I make it sound like my job right now really sucks, and actually my job doesn’t suck all that bad. That said, I probably don’t want to do it forever and I’ll never be as young as I am right now and what I really want is to follow my passion and become– what? A writer.

Yes. Because I am so excellent and this and I am enjoying myself so much right now. The words course through my body and out through my fingertips like wet butter. They make brief pit stops to put air in their tires and urinate in my brainpan.

Anyway.

The problem seems to be that every job looks awful. I sound terribly privileged, and I am. I have the luxury of a current job. I have had not-that-luxury before and I understand that, you know. When a person is unemployed or underemployed, said person is slightly less likely to be a malcontent and judgy nutface about the options presented before her. Or him.

So, yes, I confess to being that most odious product of the middle class, who believes that making a living has anything to do with following a dream. Even worse than that– somewhere deep in the bowels of my heart-intestines, I actually believe I’m entitled to have a dream, and that figuring out what it is and then attempting to achieve it is something I ought to be given time and freedom and (what? seriously?) money (the worst!) to do.

I know, I know. Blah, blah, blah, Millenials are the worst people in the world.

At least I didn’t blog about Nicktoons though, right?

Also who gives a crap, because no one is reading this so whoever I’m addressing these questions to doesn’t even properly exist in this particular (small) (scrunchy) (sort of reddish orange) constructed reality that is “the blog post I’m writing right now and all of the very manys of people who are taking time out of their busy snacks to read it.”

Oh well.