How can I put feelings in words?
I don’t think I can.
When I cannot put feelings in words there are three things to do.
One, be silly. As silly as possible. I am good at this.
Two, cry my eyes out. I am good at this too.
Three, walk. I am not very good at this but hey, I try.
Right now my lower back is killing me. The weather turned cold and humid and once more it started acting up. I hurt my lower back when my father was living with us before he died. I was taking care of him and picking him up. That was three years ago. Another unpleasant thing I owe to him, except for the lousy taste in boyfriends and the general mess he left concerning the inheritance. Thanks, daddy. Nice one. Remind me to give you a piece of my mind when we meet up there or down there. Together with a lit stick of dynamite or a homemade chocolate that contains milk, hazelnuts and TNT.
And I read silly novels about death and choice and no easy answers. Mmm, tell me about it. And I also read Mr. Gaiman’s blog entry about his terrible shortage in cats and of how he will miss Princess, his terribly evil white fluffy cat when she’s gone and of how he cannot explain to anyone why he’ll miss that cat. A kind one, yes, but Princess is not such a case. Having a similar case of an evil Persian I think I know what he’s talking about. You see, I have this orange fluffy log of a cat that lives for is eating, purring and running around the house at maximum speed for reasons unknown. He does that in a cute bouncy way that more often than not ends up knocking my mother’s legs out of his way with all ten cute kilos of him. Needless to say, he makes me happy beyond words to have him purring on my bed. And then I also have this white Persian that’s a case of Spite and Malice and very sharp claws all-rolled-in-one. I have accepted my fate; I was the one who picked her from the streets so I belong to her. And yet when she’ll be gone I know I’ll be bawling like a baby, for in spite of her nasty demeanor she follows me around the house and is always happy to be close to me. Never mind the vicious bites and scratches she gives me when she is irritated by the way I pet her, for example. That’s another thing. Try to imagine Hannibal Lecter following you around and trying to be sweet to you and you’ll probably know why I’ll cry when she’s gone.
And then I had my cards read for me. It’s always so much fun when this happens; when I discover people's true sentiments it makes me want to take up new interesting hobbies. Such as knitting (and giving away as gift) explosive pieces of underwear, or installing electrical eels in plumping systems of the aforesaid people, or reversing hinges in doors so that instead of entering a room, have the door land on their heads or toes or chop off their nose. Does this make me mean? You haven’t heard about the glass-shard enhanced pillows yet, so don’t jump into conclusions, ok?
I think I’m going to go and get some sleep before I start telling you about the homemade make-up removing lotion with sulfuric acid. And before my Persian indeed manages to sniff the lit candle as she’s been trying to do for the past one minute. Bye now.