I don’t feel like writing anything this week. There, I said it. I’ve pulled back the curtain and given you all front-row access to the creative process. Behind the scenes with yours truly! And this week, yours truly doesn’t care about giving anything useful or interesting whatsoever to read.
Here’s the problem; life as of late has been good. For all the complaining and bitching and general moaning that you’ve had to endure out of my blogs recently — getting old and heartache and some kind of weird cat love analogy — things have suddenly turned solid. My friends are great. I’m at a job that I enjoy. I’m launching a super secret project (stay tuned for more on that). I’ve met a girl who’s so awesome in every way that it defies logic why she even speaks to me. So everything is dandy, and that’s why my writing motivation is gone. Continue reading “Peachy Keen”
Breaking up is hard. Probably more so in Cat World, where the bonds that tether cat lovers are so exceptionally strong. Seamus knew this, which is why he was so floored at the magnitude to which his cat heart was broken.
His friends tried to reassure him, offering advice on what he could do to ease his pain. Find an especially bouncy ball of yarn. Chase a laser point as it dances across a surface. Stay away from sad songs.
The problem is that all this advice rang hollow, as it is impossible for one cat who has experienced heartbreak to advise another, let alone for a cat whose heart is still intact. One never feels so little motivation for chasing mice than when occupying the depths of the Well of Heartache. And staying away from love songs is a falsity, so common an idea that it has proliferated well beyond its reasonable application, offered from someone who imagines what heartbreak would be like, but who has not experienced it. Love songs are the least of a shattered cats worries.
Try looking through a calendar, with dates like “tour the Cat World museum together” still occupying future panels. Or reaching into your cat wallet and accidentally pulling out a receipt of the hot dogs you bought together at the baseball game, which was the time of your life for every other reason than cat baseball. Or listening to old voicemails only to hear Janxy’s phantom voice, a welcome apparition reminding you of better times that now seem so distant and out of reach you can question whether they happened at all, or were just part of some unfairly joyous catnap dream.
No one told Seamus about that. Continue reading “The Ballad of Seamus and Janxy II: Breakups”
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before…let’s see, I can’t remember exactly how it goes…but it’s something to the effect of “if you’re a nice guy, you don’t finish first. Or even close. More like…last.” Yeah, I think that’s pretty much it. Nailed it.
Truer words maybe have never been spoken. Don’t worry, nice girls: the same applies to you. This acute sort of perpetual misery is all inclusive. Don’t get me wrong; kindness sucking at racing doesn’t apply to every situation. If you suck as a person, it’s hard to be a good friend. Tools and douchebags need not apply for the Nice Olympics. But I tell you what, in my not-as-brief-as-I-would-like-anymore existence on this earth, one of the things that has rang true is there is no better way to woo the opposite sex than to be in a-hole city, population: you. Continue reading “Have a Nice Trip, See You Next Fall”