I've always hated cats.
Their "high-stead" behavior has always grated on my nerves. They slink around like rats, acting cutsie for random people to give them food, and then abandon them and move on again. I swear they're all laughing at us behind our backs.
When I was a little girl I had not yet awakened to my knowledge of my hatred of them. I innocently approached the cranky neighbor lady Loraine's cat "Lacie" to give it a pet. The animal jumped on my seven year old head and deeply scratched my cheek into 3 sections. Not only did I get hurt, but Loraine was right there in her yard, reading her newspaper in a purple hamock, drinking her orange juice. She just stared at me indignantly, without coming over to help.
If there's something I hate more than cats, it's the people who love them.
But, fast-forwarding, this cat just won't leave me alone. I'm talking about the invisible animal thing that I was writing about in my last entry(was it already several months ago?). It stole my goldfish, remember? I didn't know what it was at first, but I've decided that it's a cat. It's been creeping into my room(I'm not sure how, since I close the window, and there's nowhere else it could have gotten in, maybe it goes through the walls?), and curling up with me when I'm sleeping. You can't tell it's there though, except for the weight, and the way the fabric is flattened down. It's not completely invisible, however. It shimmers sometimes if you catch it in direct sunlight(really indirectly though). I've tried to drive it out by throwing pillows at it, and dancing like a madman in my room to scare it, but it's persistent. I've pretty much given up by now. The pillows just go through it, anyways. I wonder what it's doing here. I hope it's not sucking my soul, or anything freaky like that, but I digress.
I find it in my room most mornings, but it always leaves by evening. Since I never really leave my room anymore, I've been tracking down the dates I find it, and the time it leaves on those dates. This has been going on in this yellow notebook, where I had pretty much given up keeping a diary in except for that one entry two months ago. Sorry. Here's a few entries from the beginning of November:
Date: time:
11/1 9:12 am
11/2 8:57 am
11/4 9:32 am
11/7 noon
11/8 1:32 am
11/14 7:47 am
Conclusion: they have no pattern whatsoever.
Conclusion: I have no idea what the heck this cat is doing here.
Question: What am I supposed to do in a situation like this?
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Anthony
It was a Thursday in April. I remember because I had taken a glance at the calendar before I had went to bed and thought of how I was born on a Thursday. Not in April, obviously; June. But I remember thinking that. So I know it was a Thursday. But I don't know which one it was.
I had lost track of the days, and the date, and even my sense of time was withering away. I am usually stuck in a vortex of nothingness, and there are times when I have even felt like I have lost myself in the abyss there. It was three in the morning when I thought to glance at the clock, and like a ghost I decided to pull the covers over my head. I could smell the odor of my own sweaty laundry covering the floor, and the film of rot in the air from the dirty dishes. Stale chip crumbs crunched under my bare feet, and I didn't even bother to brush my teeth; I just collapsed from exhaustion, and something else, onto my bed. I breathed in the scent of the musty green sheets, and felt the filth of my life hover over me in the darkness.
I was a few minutes into dozing when Giovanni jumped on my bed, simultaneously snuggling next to me and waking me at the same time. I fetched my hand out of my covers and gave him a scratch on the head as he purred. And then I heard from my deep underwater ears a scratch on the door. Grumbling, I climbed my way out of my sheets, and navigated through the dark to the back door. I turned the handle of the unlocked door, and opened it a slit, expecting Campanella to walk through with his tail all proud and prancing in the air. After a moment of seeing nothing, I gasped and swung the door open to see who was there playing tricks on me at three in the morning. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck, but with the door entirely embracing the thick blanket of darkness and the slightly rustling plum tree to my left, I could see absolutely no one. My confusion rose, and with it, my fear, and I was left with my hand stuck cold to the door knob, unable to move. My eyes swung back and forth for any movement, and my ears pitched into the night for a single sound. But my eyes found it first, sitting at my feet. The sliver of moon came out from the clouds, and I stared at the thing below me. It was a sketch, an outline, a reflection of moonlight on an invisible body. I watched it stare back at me, as though introducing itself once again to me as what it was. The plum tree rustled in my ears; how many days ago had I buried the cat in it's roots? My head instantly soared to the clouds.
But introductions were over, and Campanella moved swiftly and silently into the open doorway.
I had lost track of the days, and the date, and even my sense of time was withering away. I am usually stuck in a vortex of nothingness, and there are times when I have even felt like I have lost myself in the abyss there. It was three in the morning when I thought to glance at the clock, and like a ghost I decided to pull the covers over my head. I could smell the odor of my own sweaty laundry covering the floor, and the film of rot in the air from the dirty dishes. Stale chip crumbs crunched under my bare feet, and I didn't even bother to brush my teeth; I just collapsed from exhaustion, and something else, onto my bed. I breathed in the scent of the musty green sheets, and felt the filth of my life hover over me in the darkness.
I was a few minutes into dozing when Giovanni jumped on my bed, simultaneously snuggling next to me and waking me at the same time. I fetched my hand out of my covers and gave him a scratch on the head as he purred. And then I heard from my deep underwater ears a scratch on the door. Grumbling, I climbed my way out of my sheets, and navigated through the dark to the back door. I turned the handle of the unlocked door, and opened it a slit, expecting Campanella to walk through with his tail all proud and prancing in the air. After a moment of seeing nothing, I gasped and swung the door open to see who was there playing tricks on me at three in the morning. I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck, but with the door entirely embracing the thick blanket of darkness and the slightly rustling plum tree to my left, I could see absolutely no one. My confusion rose, and with it, my fear, and I was left with my hand stuck cold to the door knob, unable to move. My eyes swung back and forth for any movement, and my ears pitched into the night for a single sound. But my eyes found it first, sitting at my feet. The sliver of moon came out from the clouds, and I stared at the thing below me. It was a sketch, an outline, a reflection of moonlight on an invisible body. I watched it stare back at me, as though introducing itself once again to me as what it was. The plum tree rustled in my ears; how many days ago had I buried the cat in it's roots? My head instantly soared to the clouds.
But introductions were over, and Campanella moved swiftly and silently into the open doorway.
Friday, August 29, 2014
June
My name is June.
I thought that if I was going to write in this notebook, I had better introduce myself. Though, truthfully, I'd rather not. It's not like a name matters, anyways. And this notebook is my least favorite color; yellow. I doubt I'll be able to write in a notebook that resembles the color of pee for very long. So it's not like my name matters.
But speaking of names, my name is June. I realize I have already pointed this out, and you might already be getting bored of me repeating things, but it's just wrong. My name, I mean. For one thing, I was born in November. But when I emerged into the world and screamed my first mortal cries, my father held me in his arms and called me June. My mother was stupidly in love with him, and agreed to it. And she's still in love with him, even though he left more than 18 years ago. Every time she calls me by my name, I can see the naive reminisce of love for my father. It's disgusting. That she still has a blind feelings for a man who betrayed her. That she sees that man when she looks at me. That the man left his mark on me, in the worst possible way, when he didn't even stick around. That my name is a show of who they wanted me to be, not who I was.
So I hate my name.
It's simply not me.
But enough of names. I take comfort in Shakespeare.
"A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet."
Not that I am an avid reader of Shakespeare. Or Romeo and Juliet. I had to read it in ninth grade for English, and I simply couldn't stand Juliet at the end, when she discovers that Romeo died because of her plan to play dead. Instead of accepting the responsibility, she kills herself "for love". No, I don't read Shakespeare. I mean, I have never really experienced love either. I've tried my best to avoid it. If love is shoving off all your responsibilities, and killing yourself for someone that's already dead, I'd rather not experience it.
But unfortunately, I am not a rose. Nor do I smell sweet most of the time. So, if that quote has any reference to me, it might be a miracle. No, I am a rather dumpy, unpleasant girl, in personality and looks. This used to affect me the most in middle school, where I would tell my mother how ugly I was every evening. At the beginning, she would try her best to convince me of the opposite, as people do every time someone says one of their faults. But she soon got tired of me, and stopped saying anything. And I realized that it didn't matter to anyone but myself. And that it shouldn't matter to me, since I had decided not to go after men either way. I was only trying to satisfy my own craving for vanity. And after I realized that, I stopped saying anything, in an attempt to wield off my caring for it. It's mostly worked.
Geez, I sound like a soap opera.
Enough of that. I was writing in here for a reason, not just to complain about my life. Although, I am going to do that here, because it must be done. No one wants to hear it, not even me, but I suppose I'll have to suffer through it. Anyways, the reason? Right.
This morning I woke up at seven. Well, that in itself is unusual. Ever since I stopped going to school, I've taken to being awake during the night, and asleep during the day. Not that it's healthy. It's just more relaxing. No one's around.
So I woke up at seven. It was a cloudy morning, so it was still halfway dark. Normally, I would be dead tired, but for some reason I was wide awake. And quiet. I didn't move. I knew something important was going to happen, and I also knew that if I even twitched a muscle, it wouldn't. So I didn't move. I kept my eyes open, staring at the fishbowl by my bed. I have a goldfish in there named Cricket. And I was pondering on the past of this fish, when I felt something jump on my bed. I jumped up, startled, my covers in a mess, searching for the culprit. But nothing was there. Nothing. But I could still feel the unnatural weight on my bed. Nothing moved for a moment in eternity, and then I felt the weight shift and start walking towards me. The weight was nothing much, just about the weight of a cat or so. It walked right up to my leg, and I could feel it's wet nose and whiskers smelling my pajama pant. And then it was gone. The weight was, I mean. The room was quiet, and after a moment I relaxed, settling down out of bed, and engaging in my morning ritual. After ten minutes in the shower, I came back inside the room with a head full of turban, convinced that I was having some weird, sleep-deprived illusion. I casually dressed myself, and then walked up to the fishbowl, meaning to sprinkle some food in there.
And realized the fish was gone.
I thought that if I was going to write in this notebook, I had better introduce myself. Though, truthfully, I'd rather not. It's not like a name matters, anyways. And this notebook is my least favorite color; yellow. I doubt I'll be able to write in a notebook that resembles the color of pee for very long. So it's not like my name matters.
But speaking of names, my name is June. I realize I have already pointed this out, and you might already be getting bored of me repeating things, but it's just wrong. My name, I mean. For one thing, I was born in November. But when I emerged into the world and screamed my first mortal cries, my father held me in his arms and called me June. My mother was stupidly in love with him, and agreed to it. And she's still in love with him, even though he left more than 18 years ago. Every time she calls me by my name, I can see the naive reminisce of love for my father. It's disgusting. That she still has a blind feelings for a man who betrayed her. That she sees that man when she looks at me. That the man left his mark on me, in the worst possible way, when he didn't even stick around. That my name is a show of who they wanted me to be, not who I was.
So I hate my name.
It's simply not me.
But enough of names. I take comfort in Shakespeare.
"A rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet."
Not that I am an avid reader of Shakespeare. Or Romeo and Juliet. I had to read it in ninth grade for English, and I simply couldn't stand Juliet at the end, when she discovers that Romeo died because of her plan to play dead. Instead of accepting the responsibility, she kills herself "for love". No, I don't read Shakespeare. I mean, I have never really experienced love either. I've tried my best to avoid it. If love is shoving off all your responsibilities, and killing yourself for someone that's already dead, I'd rather not experience it.
But unfortunately, I am not a rose. Nor do I smell sweet most of the time. So, if that quote has any reference to me, it might be a miracle. No, I am a rather dumpy, unpleasant girl, in personality and looks. This used to affect me the most in middle school, where I would tell my mother how ugly I was every evening. At the beginning, she would try her best to convince me of the opposite, as people do every time someone says one of their faults. But she soon got tired of me, and stopped saying anything. And I realized that it didn't matter to anyone but myself. And that it shouldn't matter to me, since I had decided not to go after men either way. I was only trying to satisfy my own craving for vanity. And after I realized that, I stopped saying anything, in an attempt to wield off my caring for it. It's mostly worked.
Geez, I sound like a soap opera.
Enough of that. I was writing in here for a reason, not just to complain about my life. Although, I am going to do that here, because it must be done. No one wants to hear it, not even me, but I suppose I'll have to suffer through it. Anyways, the reason? Right.
This morning I woke up at seven. Well, that in itself is unusual. Ever since I stopped going to school, I've taken to being awake during the night, and asleep during the day. Not that it's healthy. It's just more relaxing. No one's around.
So I woke up at seven. It was a cloudy morning, so it was still halfway dark. Normally, I would be dead tired, but for some reason I was wide awake. And quiet. I didn't move. I knew something important was going to happen, and I also knew that if I even twitched a muscle, it wouldn't. So I didn't move. I kept my eyes open, staring at the fishbowl by my bed. I have a goldfish in there named Cricket. And I was pondering on the past of this fish, when I felt something jump on my bed. I jumped up, startled, my covers in a mess, searching for the culprit. But nothing was there. Nothing. But I could still feel the unnatural weight on my bed. Nothing moved for a moment in eternity, and then I felt the weight shift and start walking towards me. The weight was nothing much, just about the weight of a cat or so. It walked right up to my leg, and I could feel it's wet nose and whiskers smelling my pajama pant. And then it was gone. The weight was, I mean. The room was quiet, and after a moment I relaxed, settling down out of bed, and engaging in my morning ritual. After ten minutes in the shower, I came back inside the room with a head full of turban, convinced that I was having some weird, sleep-deprived illusion. I casually dressed myself, and then walked up to the fishbowl, meaning to sprinkle some food in there.
And realized the fish was gone.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Anthony
Cats are a pain to take care of.
I have two cats; Giovanni and Campanella.
Well, had, since Campanella died last year.
I can't seem to get rid of him though.
When was the first time I noticed that I had a ghost cat still floating around? Hmm. I can't really put it right, but I think it was last April. Campanella is an orange tabby, while Giovanni is a blue tabby. I got them in a pair from some friend of a friend of my mothers. Don't remember her name. I don't even think I've ever seen the lady. I don't really care to either. My mother graciously accepted the animals, as the lady was moving away, but as soon as no one was looking she dumped them on me.
"You like cats, don't you?" she said on the phone after I called, discovering two holed boxes on my apartment room floor.
This is a fallacy. I don't like cats. However, nor do I viciously hate them. I simply didn't feel like taking care of two other biological members of the animal kingdom, when I can barely take care of myself. The only reason my mother thinks I like cats is because when I was seven, I had a period of where I would point out every cat on the street. They always stalked around, and when I was able to spot one, I felt a childish pride at my observation skills. If you could call them "skills". My feelings towards cats is more around indifference than like. However, even though I have told my mother this on several occasions, her maternal mind forgets and instantly goes back to that time when I pointed out every cat with my grimy index finger. Mothers do that.
"No, I don't," I said, reminding her once again that I was not seven years old.
"Oh," she said, reminded, "Well, I only need you to take care of them for a little while until I find a new job. It won't be hard, you know. Feed them, water them, and they'll be fine."
"They aren't plants."
"Yes, yes, Mr. Negative. Anyways, it'll be good for you."
"Animals that don't bathe?"
"Having company! In that tiny room you never seem to poke your head out of! Quit making this difficult for me! You know I have a hard enough time with the office already, help me out a little! It's not like you have a real job, either! And they're just cats! You don't have to be so uncooperative all the time! Why do you always have to say I'm a bad mother?!"
a beep on the other side told me that she had hung up.
"...I didn't," I said to the yellow plastered wall.
There seems to be a rule in the human psych that when you and your parents argue, the victory immediately goes to the parent. This seems to be true even when you yourself counterattack with logic, and or, reasoning. Sometimes, even when you yourself have thought that you have won a certain battle, it turns out simply to be a prelude to your defeat in the war. Anyone who has the idea of a family as a cuddly group of people who unconditionally love each other are mistaken. A family is another world, where each member is a single nation. There may be treaties, there may be good relations for the sake of economy, however underneath it all is a secret war for power and position. The younger and smaller a country is, the less power it has to reject the larger, older ones. There is quiet blood shed at every turn; when a sibling takes your seat at the dining room table, when someone lies to another, when your mother laughs at something you were serious about, when your father ignores you. It's simply that, sometimes the war becomes uncovered, and the bloodshed is on display for all to see. When this happens, World War can, and easily, ensue. The flag is risen for all of the nations to fight against another. And believe me, they will fight. They enjoy it.
At least. That is what I think.
So when my mother hung up on the phone, I never called her back to argue on the subject again. I had already lost the battle. And I also realized that if I fought anymore, all I would do was lose again. Two years later, my mother had her job changed, but she had forgotten all about taking the cats back. I didn't remind her. I knew how she would react. There would be another battle, I would lose, and it would have to be added to my long list of failures that's written itself in my head. There was no point to reminding her.
Besides. I don't hate cats.
Anyways, Campanella died when he was only about six years old. It was rather sudden, but I noticed one day that he hadn't come inside to eat his meal. I found his rag-tag body lying on it's side in the yard when I went outside to check. I sighed, went back inside to fetch an old shoebox from the closet I had kept, stuffed his limp body inside it, and buried him under the red plum tree outside my window. Giovanni was bummed out for about two days, then puckered up and went back to normal. He's a rather chubby cat, who likes human-based attention, and staying indoors. He likes to sit on my lap when I'm working on my website. The website brings in my only income, which is not very much, but it pays the rent, and I don't have to even take a step outside. Campanella had (has) a completely different personality than Giovanni. He spent almost all his time outdoors, doing whatever knows what, and only came in for food and water. Sometimes....I wonder...is it strange to feel jealous of a cat?
Dead, no less.
I have two cats; Giovanni and Campanella.
Well, had, since Campanella died last year.
I can't seem to get rid of him though.
When was the first time I noticed that I had a ghost cat still floating around? Hmm. I can't really put it right, but I think it was last April. Campanella is an orange tabby, while Giovanni is a blue tabby. I got them in a pair from some friend of a friend of my mothers. Don't remember her name. I don't even think I've ever seen the lady. I don't really care to either. My mother graciously accepted the animals, as the lady was moving away, but as soon as no one was looking she dumped them on me.
"You like cats, don't you?" she said on the phone after I called, discovering two holed boxes on my apartment room floor.
This is a fallacy. I don't like cats. However, nor do I viciously hate them. I simply didn't feel like taking care of two other biological members of the animal kingdom, when I can barely take care of myself. The only reason my mother thinks I like cats is because when I was seven, I had a period of where I would point out every cat on the street. They always stalked around, and when I was able to spot one, I felt a childish pride at my observation skills. If you could call them "skills". My feelings towards cats is more around indifference than like. However, even though I have told my mother this on several occasions, her maternal mind forgets and instantly goes back to that time when I pointed out every cat with my grimy index finger. Mothers do that.
"No, I don't," I said, reminding her once again that I was not seven years old.
"Oh," she said, reminded, "Well, I only need you to take care of them for a little while until I find a new job. It won't be hard, you know. Feed them, water them, and they'll be fine."
"They aren't plants."
"Yes, yes, Mr. Negative. Anyways, it'll be good for you."
"Animals that don't bathe?"
"Having company! In that tiny room you never seem to poke your head out of! Quit making this difficult for me! You know I have a hard enough time with the office already, help me out a little! It's not like you have a real job, either! And they're just cats! You don't have to be so uncooperative all the time! Why do you always have to say I'm a bad mother?!"
a beep on the other side told me that she had hung up.
"...I didn't," I said to the yellow plastered wall.
There seems to be a rule in the human psych that when you and your parents argue, the victory immediately goes to the parent. This seems to be true even when you yourself counterattack with logic, and or, reasoning. Sometimes, even when you yourself have thought that you have won a certain battle, it turns out simply to be a prelude to your defeat in the war. Anyone who has the idea of a family as a cuddly group of people who unconditionally love each other are mistaken. A family is another world, where each member is a single nation. There may be treaties, there may be good relations for the sake of economy, however underneath it all is a secret war for power and position. The younger and smaller a country is, the less power it has to reject the larger, older ones. There is quiet blood shed at every turn; when a sibling takes your seat at the dining room table, when someone lies to another, when your mother laughs at something you were serious about, when your father ignores you. It's simply that, sometimes the war becomes uncovered, and the bloodshed is on display for all to see. When this happens, World War can, and easily, ensue. The flag is risen for all of the nations to fight against another. And believe me, they will fight. They enjoy it.
At least. That is what I think.
So when my mother hung up on the phone, I never called her back to argue on the subject again. I had already lost the battle. And I also realized that if I fought anymore, all I would do was lose again. Two years later, my mother had her job changed, but she had forgotten all about taking the cats back. I didn't remind her. I knew how she would react. There would be another battle, I would lose, and it would have to be added to my long list of failures that's written itself in my head. There was no point to reminding her.
Besides. I don't hate cats.
Anyways, Campanella died when he was only about six years old. It was rather sudden, but I noticed one day that he hadn't come inside to eat his meal. I found his rag-tag body lying on it's side in the yard when I went outside to check. I sighed, went back inside to fetch an old shoebox from the closet I had kept, stuffed his limp body inside it, and buried him under the red plum tree outside my window. Giovanni was bummed out for about two days, then puckered up and went back to normal. He's a rather chubby cat, who likes human-based attention, and staying indoors. He likes to sit on my lap when I'm working on my website. The website brings in my only income, which is not very much, but it pays the rent, and I don't have to even take a step outside. Campanella had (has) a completely different personality than Giovanni. He spent almost all his time outdoors, doing whatever knows what, and only came in for food and water. Sometimes....I wonder...is it strange to feel jealous of a cat?
Dead, no less.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
Doorbell
January 2, 2014
Wednesday
Dear Diary,
It's been about 4 months since the car crash. My leg is still wrapped in this blue cast that itches like crazy. Today I had a cold, so I stayed home while the family went to visit the relatives in the valley. I've not been doing much all day except sniffing and sniveling with this stupid faucet nose. There's a skyscraper tower of tissues on the computer desk, where I've been watching this stupid show for the past 3 hours. Ugh, what was it called? I forget. Anyways, it was dumb.
I've told mom about it before, but she says its impossible. I haven't been able to remember much before the car crash, but I could swear I saw something when I was still half-conscious lying on the asphalt. It was tall and black, and it was staring at me, though I couldn't see its face. I don't know why I say 'it', because it was obviously someone, but it just didn't give me the feeling that this person was someone to call a person. I'd forgotten about it til' now, because of everything that's happened. But I started remembering these past 2 weeks, because I keep having this same dream. The 'thing' or whoever, is outside the door of our house while I'm in my bed sleeping, waiting and waiting for me. It never does anything; it just waits for me. I don't know why that scares me so much.
I haven't been sleeping well lately.
I...think I just saw something. I'm a little freaked out, while writing this. I hate being home alone.
Oh, the doorbell rang. I wonder if they're home with groceries or something. I'll go get it.
Wednesday
Dear Diary,
It's been about 4 months since the car crash. My leg is still wrapped in this blue cast that itches like crazy. Today I had a cold, so I stayed home while the family went to visit the relatives in the valley. I've not been doing much all day except sniffing and sniveling with this stupid faucet nose. There's a skyscraper tower of tissues on the computer desk, where I've been watching this stupid show for the past 3 hours. Ugh, what was it called? I forget. Anyways, it was dumb.
I've told mom about it before, but she says its impossible. I haven't been able to remember much before the car crash, but I could swear I saw something when I was still half-conscious lying on the asphalt. It was tall and black, and it was staring at me, though I couldn't see its face. I don't know why I say 'it', because it was obviously someone, but it just didn't give me the feeling that this person was someone to call a person. I'd forgotten about it til' now, because of everything that's happened. But I started remembering these past 2 weeks, because I keep having this same dream. The 'thing' or whoever, is outside the door of our house while I'm in my bed sleeping, waiting and waiting for me. It never does anything; it just waits for me. I don't know why that scares me so much.
I haven't been sleeping well lately.
I...think I just saw something. I'm a little freaked out, while writing this. I hate being home alone.
Oh, the doorbell rang. I wonder if they're home with groceries or something. I'll go get it.
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