Rotten

my pretty little kitty--all black softness and wrinkled brow, intent yellow eyes, white claws. She is, undoubtably, the love of my life. Last night she mewed sweetly at me for five minutes and then proceeded to puke up cheese all over my book. She then blinked up at me and mewed some more, hopped off the futon and ran back to the kitchen to beg for more food. It's hard to be mad at a cat that adores me and wakes me up right before the alarm goes off to purr in my ear, so I cleaned up the book and petted the cat and gave her some more water.

New Outfit

FrumpLump

I need more than tea time today. More than Boboa. Lot more than this job. Need to be able to curl up in a ball under the blanket and and read and read and read. Maybe I'll stop by the library on myt way home. Pay my fines with the money I don't have and then I'll have books to distract me from my post holiday slump. Lump. It's so quiet up here. Lonely! Feel frumpy and dumpy today. And poor. Need to stretch myself out. Breathe deeply. Play with my kitten.

His Name Was

Chavdor. and he smelled like I imagined Rawling's
Mundungas does, with dark set eyes and interest
at the world in them. Smelled like I imagine
Dosteoevsky, in the attic, under muddy sheets
in the cold still air of an apartment without
heat in the middle of January. There is nothing
like being cold all the way through your skin.
No sullen steady warmth from mushy pink
and blue organs. No sudden clench of uterus or
heart. Just cold. Better to be warm, baked and
lethargic then feel steeped in the quiet blanket of
cold like that. Once that cold has taken over
joy wouldn't feel the same I think: it would
sap the sense of bounce quicker than opium.
In their dances, their songs, their poetry:
there is the heavy sullen weight of the still
coldness.