Crazy Little Thing Called Love

On this blog, Sir Winston Purrchill has been variously described as a traitor, a spoiled brat and an unkillable demon. He is a mauler of extremities. He’s clearly on a mission to spread an even layer of litter — fresh or otherwise — throughout the house. His favorite hobby is staring you dead in the eye while you’re trying to pee.


Yep. Just like that.

For some reason, I like him anyway. Maybe it’s the midnight face smooches. Maybe it’s the perpetually annoyed expression. Whatever it is, he’s got me wrapped around his little… foot pad. I was even late for work this morning because he was feeling cuddly and I didn’t have it in me to dump him on the floor.

I love that furry little guy — he’s changed me. I’m just not totally sure it’s for the better. Ever since becoming a cat owner, I’ve noticed myself getting progressively crazier.

Things I Can No Longer Do Since Meeting Winston

  1. Read anything online pertaining to animals. When I was 9 or 10, I came out of a two-day crying jag caused by “Where the Red Fern Grows” and swore on Old Dan’s soul that I would never, ever read another book or see another movie about animals again. Since owning Winston, I’ve had to be very careful online, too. I’ve blocked three of my older female Facebook friends for sharing Hallmarky, cornball posts about the last days of pets that probably never existed. Last week, BuzzFeed tricked me with a list of famous authors who loved cats. I thought it was going to be cute. Oh no. Almost all the entries include heart-wrenching things they wrote after their favorite cats died that will haunt me in the dead of night. UGH. FEELINGS.
  2. Eat meat without overthinking it. I come from a family of carnivores. Both of my grandfathers raised cattle. We’re a meat-eating people and there’s no getting away from it. But since I’ve started hanging out with an animal, I’m getting all conflicted about hamburgers. Gone are the days I could pretend that steaks are grown in labs and that chicken nuggets are collected from beneath nugget trees during the harvest. I’m starting to ask uncomfortable questions about where meat came from, and how the livestock was treated beforehand. The whole time I’m looking guiltily at my turkey sandwich, Winston is mercilessly eating entire families of bugs and slurping up beef shreds without a care in the world.
  3. Exist without overthinking it. Feeling conflicted about meat makes perfect sense. But as soon as I started thinking about livestock’s feelings, I started thinking about the feelings of things that most sane people agree probably have no feelings. This afternoon, I got teary-eyed when I saw a butterfly because I realized that a totally different butterfly I saw in early June was likely dead. This maudlin crap is becoming run-of-the-mill. I ate a potato last week and thought, How sure are scientists that plants don’t have feelings? As if science had anything to do with it. Do potatoes have souls? At this rate I’m going to starve to death.

1 and a half russet potato with sprouts. Slice...

I can hear them screaming.

Things I Can Do Too Well Since Meeting Winston

  1. Get totally wrapped up in crazy New Agey feelings about the interconnectivity of organisms and the universe.
  2. Watch endless cat videos and gifs online. Last spring I found a gif that had me in inexplicable tears at work. No one else thought it was funny. I still watch it sometimes.
  3. Fly into fits of rage when thinking about animal abuse. It doesn’t even have to be real animal abuse. I read “Anna Karenina” this summer and Vronsky permanently lost all my sympathy during the horse-racing scene. Go ahead and ruin Anna’s life, but know this: Frou Frou was too good for you, scumbag.
  4. Convince myself that adopting all the cats is a really good idea. I read about a shelter in Marin County where someone has been anonymously dropping off two dozen tuxedo cats at a time. The shelter has more than 100 cats now. My house is about a thousand square feet. I’m not good at math, but I see this working out. I am partial to those little tuxedos.
  5. Talk myself into buying prints of Winston in a space suit. Last year I would have looked at this website and thought, “Wow. What kind of crazy person would spend that much money on such a stupid first-world purchase?” This year, I looked at it and thought, “Yes please I need this how much!!!!!!”
  6. “Joke” about being a crazy cat lady. I keep laughing about how I’m going to take Winston into Sears for a family portrait. One of those shots where I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater and holding him too closely, and above us there’s another, semi-transparent picture of his head in profile. I’m laughing, but it’s like, “Ha ha I should totally do that ha ha ha I AM GOING TO DO THAT. TRY AND STOP ME.”

Or this. This is good.

Or this. This is good.

My parents are both veterinarians and I’ve seen people who are too invested in their pets. I’ve pitied those people. I know that this is not the way my brain should be. I know I’m nuts. I really am going to start reigning it in before I freak everybody out.

But for now, I am going to Google driving directions to Marin County. They’re waiving adoption fees, people!

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Wanna Change My Clothes, My Hair, My Face

You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, but I have two monster zits on my face this week.

Oh wait. It’s the opposite of that.

You absolutely would know it by looking at me, because it’s actually more like two monster zits happen to have a face this week.

They’re bad. They’re angry and red, and they hurt every time I touch them, which I can’t stop doing. One is on my chin, exactly where witches keep their warts. The other is between my eyes in a spot where my glasses come very close to hiding it, but highlight it instead. I’ve been avoiding human interaction even more than usual because the second I see someone’s eyes flicker towards them, it takes everything I’ve got not to throw my arm across my face and stumble blindly away, yelling, “Don’t look at me! DON’T LOOK AT ME!”

I know it shouldn’t be like this. I have a lot of things going for me right now — my job is getting kind of exciting! I have a house that’s progressively becoming less pink!

We don't even say the word pink in there anymore.

We don’t even say the word pink in there anymore.

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This Love Has Taken its Toll on Me

I really wanted to be a writer when I was a kid, and the only reason for this was that writing came easier to me than other subjects did. I wanted to be a writer because I didn’t want to try to learn anything else. Everyone does that, though. Kids who are good at art want to grow up to be artists, kids with a knack for science want to be scientists, and kids who like math want to be calculators.

English: A basic, Sharp-brand solar calculator.

Math kids are weird.

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Are You, Are You Coming to the Tree

I know I’m about four years behind the cool kids and totally one of those lame bandwaggoners everyone’s always complaining about, but I have an announcement. I finally read Mockingjay, the last book in the Hunger Games trilogy. It made me cry my eyes out.

I didn’t cry about *SPOILER ALERT* that first really sad thing that happened near the beginning. Or *SPOILERS AGAIN* that other super, super sad thing in the middle. I didn’t even cry at the end when *SO MANY SPOILERS ARE HAPPENING RIGHT NOW* that thing-that-is-so-impossibly-sad-it-made-everyone’s-soul-break-in-half happened. (This is how spoilers work, right?)

No, my lower lip only started trembling every time the government committed some terrible travesty. So… I cried through the whole book. By the end of the thing, I was curled up on the floor with my knees pulled tight to my chest blubbering things like, “F-f-f-freeedommm! Certain un-un-unaaaaaalienable riiiiiiiights! Katnisssss and Buttercuh-uh-uh-uppppp!”

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Poor Poor Pitiful Me

If I could go back in time to any one moment, I would kill Hitler because that is the time travel rule. But if I could go back to any two moments, after I killed Hitler I would visit myself last Sunday morning, just as Past Me’s head was getting stuck in a sweatshirt.

I would step quickly and quietly up behind myself and press my ray gun into Past Me’s side.

A typical imaginary raygun

I’m a time traveler in this scenario. Obviously I have a ray gun.

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