What I like the most in this picture is the fact that Brad is holding an Oscar but he is looking at Angelina like she is the best prize he has ever won. They are so adorable together.
"WHAT TEAM?!” I shout out the window into the night.
Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, Zac Efron wakes from a restless sleep, sitting bolt upright “WILDCATS”
Pretty frequently, I have dreams and then several days later they happen, like I predict the future. The other day I had a dream that I was typing a paper for school and I just now started typing that paper and realized I dreamed it. Damn, I wish I could harness that somehow. Like hook my brain up to a computer and type the paper when I dream it. It would save a lot of time.
Okay. Rant over
I can’t stop feeling miserable. I had to put my 16 year old cat down on Thursday and I just can’t stop crying. I’m only 20 years old so I have had that cat since I was 4 and I can’t even remember life before him. I hate going to sleep and not having him next to me. I hate coming home from church and not finding him greeting me at the door. I hate that the litterbox in the corner is gone and the cans of cat food sit idle in the pantry. I hate putting my make-up on in the bathroom and not having him sit next to me on the counter. I hate that I don’t have to fight him to brush my teeth because he loves to drink from the sink. I hate that I can leave a cup on a coffee table and it’s still there in the morning because he didn’t spill it overnight. I hate that I don’t have to worry about accidentally sitting on him (because it’s hard to see a black cat on a black sofa). I hate that he isn’t there to run away from a bug instead of killing it like most cats do. I hate that he isn’t there for my sister to make fun of his unusual meow or his single white whisker on an all black face. I hate that I can walk out into the kitchen and the middle of the night and not see his glowing green eyes on the sofa as he spots me and lights up with excitement over just the sight of me. I hate that this weekend I will have to come home from college and he won’t be there to greet me enthusiastically like it’s the greatest day of his life like he has always done. I hate that he doesn’t wake me up at 7:30 am to demand food, regardless of my desired sleep schedule. I hate that he will never again lick my nose or shove his head under my hand when he demands to be petted.I hate that he isn’t there to walk all over my sister’s fiance because he gets territorial with him and wants to make it clear that my sister is “his female.” I hate that my mother doesn’t have to worry that he will climb on the kitchen counter in the middle of the night and break something. I hate that I can write a paper without the interruption of him walking across the keyboard and scratching his chin on the corner of the screen. I hate that I can pack without him climbing in my bag or looking at me with such a look of abandonment when I’m only leaving for the weekend. I hate that when my sister showers, I don’t hear him howling outside her bathroom door because he loves to sit under the shower water. I hate that I can eat on the couch without him trying to stick his face or paw in the food. I hate that I can leave something on the couch overnight and know he won’t have thrown up on it during the night. I hate that anyone in the family can eat something peppermint flavored and he won’t attack you (because peppermint is his favorite). I hate that he will never again lie on my stomach and just stare at me lovingly, like I’m the only thing that matters in the world. I hate that I can sing and dance like a loser to my ipod and he isn’t there to look at me like he thinks I’ve lost my mind. I hate that he doesn’t sit next to me and watch TV with me like he understands what’s going on. I hate that there can be a rainstorm and I won’t find him hiding under my bed because he’s afraid of them. I hate that I no longer have the problem of trying to photograph a black cat and not just end up with a black blur and two glowing green eyes to show for it. I hate reading a book and he’s not there to stand on my stomach in between me and the book because he thinks he is more important to pay attention to. I hate that my mother can vacuum and he doesn’t go running because he’s afraid of the noise it makes. I hate that I don’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore because he is walking on my back or trying to climb onto my dresser from my nightstand. I hate that I can eat banana pudding without having to share it with him because it’s his favorite. I hate that I have a pile of coupons for his favorite cat food that will go to waste, a pouch of Temptations, his favorite treats that he would do ANYTHING for, and even meat tenderizer in the pantry that we only used for his food because he couldn’t digest in his old age. I hate lying down and not having instantly nestle into my long hair and purr with happiness while his paws massage my neck. I hate that when I sit on the couch he doesn’t sit next to me or follow me when I leave the couch. Or follow my sister around relentlessly, no matter how many times she walks all over the house. I hate that I can’t see that white ring of skin around his neck from where his collar rubbed the fur off permanently (and I still feel guilty that I never noticed, even if it didn’t hurt him), or that little bump on his right ear that is a scar from where our other cat bit him during a fight. I hate that the little white hairs all around his neck and chest don’t photograph, because we always joked that he grew them especially for my dad, who always wanted a black and white cat. Or how the little white hairs line up on his chest exactly on his favorite place to be scratched, other than his chin. How he would jut out his chin and stick his lips out in pure bliss when you scratched either spot. I hate seeing the bottle of cat shampoo (named “Fur So Fresh!” a name my sister thoroughly enjoyed) in the bathroom that my sister used religiously to keep him clean. I hate that he isn’t there to lie on anything that may be drawing my attention away from him. I hate seeing the cat bed in the corner of my room that he never used because he preferred a blanket on the couch or the towel in front of my mom’s shower. I hate seeing that box of cat toys next to the TV that he only ever used about 3 of them. I hate knowing that this Christmas, there won’t be a picture of him asleep under the Christmas tree on the tree skirt and all our presents will have the bows perfectly in tact because he won’t rip them off and play with them. I hate that we can hang those stupid apple Christmas ornaments on the lower part of the tree because he won’t try to climb the tree to get to them. I hate that every time I go to the bathroom I put the toilet seat cover down automatically because he uses it to jump on the bathroom counter to stare at himself in the mirror. I hate that he doesn’t open doors anymore (because yes, he knew how to turn a doorknob) or stick his mouth under the crack of a closed door to make sure his meow projected into a room he was being locked out of. I hate that when I sit on the couch to watch TV, he doesn’t sit on the armrest next to me. I hate that he doesn’t immediately yell at all of us when we come home late after being out all day. After 16 years of living with us, he would still look to me for permission before jumping on the bed. I hate that I don’t have to race him to get to my room first so I can lie down first and guarantee that I actually have room on the bed. I hate not seeing how he folds his little paws when he sits and looks so dignified, just like an Egyptian statue. I hate not having to worry if he is escaping out the front door when I leave or just open the door for the pizza delivery guy. I hate that he doesn’t lie on one arm anymore, completely incapacitating that arm and keeping me right next to him while he sleeps. I hate that the last moments I spent with him, he was too weak and sick to do any of these things except rest his paw on my hand to keep me close and look at me sweetly but sadly.
And most of all, I hate that every time I have been upset over something stupid like a bad grade on a test or a nightmare or over something monumental like the death of my pastor or my dad leaving he has always been there and now, when I am more upset than I have ever been in my life, he isn’t there to make it better. He isn’t there to meow at me because he doesn’t know why I’m sad. He isn’t there to lick my leg because he wants to fix it. When I was little and would wake up screaming for my dad because of a nightmare, he would stay with me religiously until my father came, and circled me on the bed, licking me until I stopped crying and would meow at my father when he finally entered, like he was telling him to help me. He isn’t there to lay against my back and gaze at me lovingly like lions do and make me laugh. I’ll never hear his meow again or feel his soft, silky fur, or see those green eyes that hold so much emotion, more emotion than I ever thought a cat could express. His tail will never wrap around my wrist like a bracelet. His little hand-like paws will never grab my finger again. He will never again rub against my legs over and over or trying to climb the back of my jeans by hooking his paws on my back pocket. I miss how he would practically jump, lifting his front paws off the ground in anticipation of one of us petting him.
I hate that I have to go about my life, because I’m a junior in college with a part time job and a commitment to a campus organization and I’m too busy to just take a few days off and cry alone in my room, which is all I want to do. I have to try to function perfectly while I write midterm papers and take quizzes and try not to burst into tears in the middle of class because EVERYTHING reminds me of him. I hate that I won’t even be thinking of him and I will just burst out into tears out of nowhere because I have reached that point of sadness. I hate that nothing brings me happiness right now, not family, friends, my campus ministry, church, music, movies, or even my favorite TV shows. I hate that my best friend Katie is going to know as soon as she looks at me that something is wrong and I will have to pretend that nothing is just to avoid breaking out into uncontrollable sobbing in the middle of a meeting. I want to tell people because I want someone to tell me it will be ok, but I also don’t want their pitying “Oh honey, it will be ok,” or those pats on the back that just make you want to cry more. I also don’t want someone to tell me I’m stupid for being so upset over the death of a pet when they have no idea what that cat has gotten me through and what he meant to me. I don’t want some patronizing comment like “He is in ‘kitty heaven’ now.” I don’t want someone to ask why I’m not over it yet, because truth be told, I’ll never be over it. I don’t want someone to tell me to just get a new cat because the last thing I want right now is to think about a cat that isn’t him. I just want someone to hug me until I stop crying, even if it takes hours. I want someone to just understand and care and be there, even if that means they just sit there while I cry, completely void of judgement or pity and just full of sympathy and empathy.
I hate that I’m trying to be ok because I’m tired of crying, my eyes are perpetually sore and swollen, my nose is bleeding from how many tissues I have gone through and I’ve cried so much that it actually makes me nauseous to cry anymore. I’m trying to be ok because right now I should be writing one of 4 papers due this week but I can’t because I can’t stop thinking about him and crying. I’m trying to be ok because I already have a problem with depression and I know that if I let myself wallow in my misery, it will get a million times worse. I know that it’s healthy to let yourself grieve and everyone says you shouldn’t bottle up your emotions, that letting yourself be sad and cry is good for you, but I’m afraid to let myself because every time I do, it results in hours of uncontrollable, violent sobbing that is so loud, I think my roommates probably think I’m dying. And after such a long episode of sadness, I sink into a depression where I can no longer be productive in any way and all I want to do is eat cookies and watch a movie that doesn’t have a single second of sadness in it (which is shockingly hard to find). My head hurts, my eyes are puffy and dry, and my congestion is stronger than when I have the flu. Tomorrow, like every day so far, I will wake up with terribly red, puffy eyes that even eyeliner can’t mask and I know that people will notice, and some will even ask, and it will take everything in my power to not burst into tears on the spot. I walk home from class and tears start trailing down my cheeks under my sunglasses. I hate that even while I type this because I hope that it will be therapeutic in some way to get it all out, I can barely do it because I have been writing for an hour now and I can barely see the screen through my blurry teary eyes and I’m sobbing out loud. I’m sure someday I will read this again and smile at everything I listed in the beginning that I loved about my cat, and that is mostly why I’m writing this; I want to remember everything about him. I never want to forget anything about him. I’m sure someday, those things will make me smile and not cry, but that day is so far away from today that I can’t stand it.
This is Bailey.
*yells* CARRY ON MY WAYWARD SO-O-O-ON
*kneels* THERE’LL BE PEACE WHEN YOU ARE DO-ONE
*lies face-down on the floor* LAY YOUR WEARY HEAD TO RE-E-E-EST
*curls up, whispers* don’t you cry no more
*BASHES THROUGH YOUR DOOR SINGING THE GUITAR SOLO*
oh my GOD I just realized that with this sweater I can be Steve from Blue’s Clues for Halloween
CLAIRE I LOVE YOU
when stressful things happen to you a lot, you hit a point where you just don’t care anymore…
my dishwasher spontaneously decided to sound like it is grinding a demon from the exorcist in the motor and I just don’t even give a shit anymore