Life, with cats

I’m a “basic bitch”. Basic as shit. So, I love coffee, Gilmore Girls, pretty nails, vintage dresses and cats.

Given that statement not to be confused with “labelling”, I own cats, three to be precise. One black, one b/w and a tiger like kitten.  All of them came from the streets of Caracas, dehydrated, starving and sick… Not to mention scared, injured and alone. Since I’m not a cat I’ll write from my limited human point of view, a human born safely and loved, cared and protected for almost 30 years, no one had to feel sorry for me, or pick me up out of pity for you see, I’m lucky.

But luck is a strange wild card, it can lead you to life, but that’s it and the rest of your existence is that: yours. Then you have options, choices and decisions, good, bad and beyond, wise, smart and plain dumb, live varies at the blinks of one’s eyes and chance is certain, at least for me regardless my unchangeable nature and constant fear of dying haunting me with every breath I take.

Where Human meets Cat? Right at Scared, Injured, Alone AV. There’s where I relate to their lives closely, intimately and freely. Each cat has a piece of my soul as I have their paws engraved in my hands, no other relationship right now can be as inclusive and understanding as the human / cat is. It’s honest. Brutally honest, born out of weaknesses and loyalty, each furry partner broke my heart and sought me, a fallen girl who cries and can’t manage crowds without rapid levels of anxiety running through her body. In my intimate fears I was brave enough to save them. It’s a victory of unlikely odds over predictable behavior. We won.

Quietly in my house we enjoy a unique way of life, a life of happy solitude. Three victorious creatures and one human that was saved, overcoming  their bad lucks a fault.

Seeing Him in 2014

By Common Consent, a Mormon Blog

[Cross-posted to In Medias Res]

This year our youngest daughter turned eight, and as her older sisters are busy with other things and her mother has been working, it’s been mostly me who has spent time with her, reading Christmas books (J.R.R. Tolkien’s Letters From Father Christmas is the new favorite this year) and watching all the essentials. A few days ago she told me about a friend at school who told her “Santa Claus is fake,” and wanted to know what I thought. I told her the truth, of course: Santa Claus is real. She wanted assurance, and wrote him a letter, asking if he was real or not. I happen to have an advance copy of what Santa wrote back, which I share with his permission with you all here:

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A time to step back and gather yourself together.

While most people are still pass out drunk or heavily drugged on family festivities, I just want to escape, hide myself or simply disappear. It’s not a matter of love for my family and humanity – I’m always questioning that second statement though- or being a simple Grinch, and I couldn’t care less about holidays to be honest. The fact is this: Christmas has stolen my tolerance for crowded, forced and unrealistic happiness.  
Magic is for children and the excessive amounts of alcohol were for me, but like 5 years ago, now my cynicism kicks more than the times I blink, and finding a good place to compost myself after unwanted phone calls, text messages and all the goods given to us by social media gets harder, not because of me per se but rather as a result of the lack of space to mourn childhood before embracing the loneliness inherently attached to any person pass his/her mid 20’s.
Christmas becomes a shriek for my heart as strong as a knife stabbing me several times a day, I think this is a time to heal for 11 months of -mostly and surely- grief, joys, losses and life as it comes. Mourning is not suffering or self punishment just for the sake of it, is how I, we, you, prepare to enter to another 365 days of living in your chosen, designated part of an enormous wheel -destiny, fate, karma- named as you like. It’s a time to seek lost pieces left behind during the past days, to forgive yourself -again- and make promises for a better tomorrow.
Let me lick my open wounds, and I’ll be back on track as my witty self in no time at all.

Welcome seeker, night owl or deeply alone friend

Pleasure to meet you and pardon me for my selfish attitude.
By being alone, jobless and outdated with zero time restrains allows me to become a writer every night. Looking for words to describe the sensations and fears, sadness and some bright points of my daily adventures –as a bipolar patience every day a miracle- . What about this taboo: becoming productive as a conclusive result of falling away from mainstream paradigms of what a successful almost 30 years old woman should be.
I’m 29 living with my mother and three cats, with a bachelor’s degree, History, and a “secure” position as a professor at my Alma Mater, no boyfriend, children or dependable creatures under my care, in other words I’M FREE. Free… Freedom.
A price is demanded by fate, the gods need my humiliation in return so I must pay with fear, loneliness and a despicable ego, what an academic bitch I am. A whore with brains who writes other people’s crap with no credits whatsoever for myself. Poor credentials. Decent life!
To move this girl/woman from a comfortable, but dangerous zone takes a leap of hope, an absolute need, but hope only comes when you behave well…
Salute to you!