I’ve gotten back into photography again…

I’m excited to say that I’m excited about anything these days. I totalled my car, I live with my 80 year-old roommates, erm, I mean Grandparents, and I feel like I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. But I’ve got my health, my friends, my cat, and my amazing boyfriend.

My cat gives the best hugs

I’m sitting up in bed with Lou. He’s curled in a “C” next o me, with his head resting on my arm, and his left arm rapped around my forearm. He’s purring, non-stop. wtf is he so happy about?!

I was pissed at him a minute ago, because he was annoying me terribly, but I know it’s only because he wants attention.

We’re listening to Brothers by The Black Keys, and he’s watching my type. I wonder if he has complex thoughts in that tiny brain of his, and if he’s just thinking about his next meal. I wonder if he likes my taste in music. Or my taste in men… Or if he gets embarrassed for me that a good chick-flick makes me cry. He’s always quick to forgive when I mistreat him. I wonder if he thinks I’m out on a big hunt all day. That may be why he always thinks it’s time to eat when I walk in the door.

I’m going to make him pick a nail polish color for me. I’m Not Really A Waitress, or Royal Blue.

I feel like I’m buried alive…

I’m stuck in a place between life and death. Floating through time and space, figuratively. In a sort of Purgatory that I’ve made in my own mind. Trapped here with feelings of depression and inadequacy.

I am my own worst enemy.

My thought is that “Purgatory” would be a white place, where you float comfortably, but this place is gray. I hover inches off the ground in an often dirty, dusty, gray place. I’m inches away from the twisted roots coming up for my feet, pulling me down. My roots are barbed. They seem to have thorns.

I have no idea how long I will be here. I have no idea where I will go. I have no idea how I got here, or when I will let myself out. I wait for someone to let me out, but I just float here.

I mean, really!

When are these cats going to learn to just feed themselves?! “meow, meow, meow”. They’re like babies. Cry when they want food, clean up after their poop.

the kinda blues

dictionaryofobscuresorrows:

n. the sad awareness that the unfolding plot of your life feels new and profound but is not unique, just one of a few dozen possible riffs on the same chord progression, while the tunes reverberating from the jukebox in your chest are all covers of old standards from the Great Emotional Songbook, which is 98% identical to that of the chimpanzee.

via shorterexcerpts