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[alexanderchemcat]

We tripped and I tried to fight my friend over my other friend—confessed some unknown love to her in front of everyone. I layed on the concrete at the foot of the steps in the sun knowing I would be dead soon. Everyone was mad I was there. They didn’t think my mushrooms were safe and I was going to die. I came out here, to this lake house to die and my parents knew it and my friends knew it was going to happen but I felt bad that I would more than likely take the property value of my friends house down by dying on the bed. I fought so hard to produce something—began chasing it and ended up in a puddle of sweat being defeated by my friend and my demons and thoughts and post break ups. I need to become a man and cut my hair and get a job and actually do something, I’m almost a quarter of a century. But those fuckers! They just kept beating around some bush and saying that I shouldn’t have been there and that sams mother was going to be mad when his mother got home and that I’m a hunter s Thompson impersonater and will never produce anything worth reading or listening to. I died in a bed overlooking a plant covered cliff leading down to the lake. I was screaming and I will continue to scream. But alas my ego didn’t die, I simply fucked myself up for no reason. I don’t know if there is anything on the other side, rather if you think there is something there you will never reach it, Simply reaching out into an abyss, no grasping, empty and alone, lost to the possibilities of everything and nothing and confessing false love and dying on your friends couch. It’s a wild ride and everything that happened was well worth the opportunity to having had it happen. The ego bit back. He leveled me. I feel like I need to explain myself to my two friends, but it was drunk and high ramblings mushroom stewed brain bursting with paranoia. I just feel like I’ve never understood love and lust and differentiate the two. I’m decapitated and debauched and a fraud and a God’s send. Fucking damn.

[alexanderchemcat]

I really don’t know what I want,

It all kinda sucks.

Everyone you love is going to die,

And you’re going to wish you had done something different.

Hung out with them when you didn’t

Been nicer when you were together.

Asked to hear all those stories one more time.

held nothing back,

everything forward.

called them when you had the time.

And then one day they’re gone,

and none of those stories will ever be told the same again.

All retellings will be cheap knock offs,

something you just tell yourself at night to help you sleep.

and thats a hole if ever I saw one.

So yeah, I don’t know what I want.

it all just seems to hurt anymore.

[alexanderchemcat]

Transportation

I’m just a callous motherfucker—jump ship now. 

The people, all gone. That deep turbid water.

Life, it is. 

Was it unrequited love that brought on shame.

Cynical in my feline ways. 

I blew up the Hindenburg.

[alexanderchemcat]

I confessed aloud, again, that I’m much more of a douche than I let on. I kinda fuck with girls’ hearts, I’ve come to find out. Not a womanizer by any means, no to be one of those you’d have to be better with them. I just kinda lure in each victim with some amount of suave nice guy routine—I’m still a bit young so, getting into a prime has its benefits there. The girls probably think they struck gold, or maybe thats my ego getting a bloody nose. Anyway, it’s always the nice ones I get. The ones that really deserve to be treated good. They’re already sort of reeling from some past traumatic experience or what not, and maybe thinking they can actually trust this man. I guess I’m just sort of some sort of wildebeest, or some wild predatory animal that hunts for the weakest in the pack. And when I say weakest, I don’t mean they were actually weak. Just, they were a little more hopeful to make the best out of something.

The funny thing is is I never set in with bad intentions. I don’t actually know what my intentions are when I set out with a girl, I guess sex to start off with. And then I get these connections with these girls—they tell me their past, I tell them mine. It seems like a deep shot at the heart of love—some Bonnie & Clyde typed romanticism. Poems are passed to one another, like kids in a classroom—we giggle and kiss and make love like nothing really matters but this thing in our arms. 

And then, there is an inevitable trigger—a fight, a miss placed sentence, someone new. Whatever the case may be, it gets stale—it gets to be a leash. I suppose I don’t usually notice when it begins, it just sort of does. I’m too much of a coward, or too shortsightedly logical, to say anything. Weeks, months, years even may pass before that little secret comes out. These girls, always trying to make the best of it, saying it’s “okay.” They unanimously agree I should say something sooner. 

At this point in the relationship, at whatever qualifying step it may be, usually gets corrupt—dirty. Some back and forth action between individuals who weep for one another—breaking pieces, putting them back together. 

Then one day, the pieces look like dust—a desert. Two best friends becoming total strangers, or worse. At the wake, we just have to try to learn to be better and love better. 

It never feels like it’s over.

[alexanderchemcat]

Snowplow

The fish guts were glazed across the road. 

Miles and miles of fish guts.

 I don’t know whose idea it was to use a snowplow to move them.

[alexanderchemcat]

Sentimental

It all starts with a ceaseless desire—a fleeting hope—that something is better around the other side. Enough space covered, enough road gone beneath tires—there is a bright day somewhere just over the next mountain, the next valley. Preaching hippie platitudes, and a desperate longing to be apart of something that is just out of reach, can lead one blind. Blinded by possibilities, blinded by looking into the light for too long. Always reaching, never grasping. Stupefying yourself to realize it was never too far. Bennies and ether bring one next to it for a moment, let them run along side this thing, even getting to grab a peripheral glance into it, but it always ends the same way—a hangover. Trying to lasso it and take it for a ride for however long is possible. But dammit you'll be back on the ground before morning comes. 

It’s said that those who attempt are bastard children. Lost sentimental youth who never learned the tragedy of growing up. Dancing in puddles, and falling from trees—jobs are worthless, just as money. But to say this is to overlook history—overlook the calling of messiahs. We have all seen the possibilities of lands out there. We have all longed for a moment in the beauty, swim in forbidden lakes and wash yourself with cold waterfalls. It’s the sentimental ones, the beats, the hippies, the missionaries—who see this for more than face value. Looking over the edge of the southern most cliff in Argentina, is looking into the face of divinity, or hope. If the coordinates could just be engraved on our collar bones when we were born we would find the spot sooner, no need to wander. But it isn't a place—or a religion—its a collection of places. All spaced around, infinitely intertwining with one another, in infinitely many places. Time.

That old grotesque word, that sullies our existence more than money. Time is the true filter. The thing that lets us compare and loath and love and wish—for a moment back in nostalgia. Time is but moments. infinitely many moments, all spinning around one another, intersecting and effecting each one. They never end, they just bounce off one another, into some sort of entropic oblivion. 

[alexanderchemcat]

The Neighbor, Felix

Felix was always kinda a douche. He’d roam around my yard like it was his own. Used to lay these massive shits that my people always thought were mine. He’d try to hide them under twigs and dirt and then someone would step on them and not even notice until they were walking around the house. I, for the most part, was an indoor cat, and would watch that sonofabitch through our windows. I’d yell to everyone, but no one ever saw him. He was the neighbor that everyone hated. I’d dream about him sometimes. 

I’d be hiding in the trees waiting for him to lay one of his craps on our beautiful lawn, and right when he was crouching I’d jump out and throw my claws into his back. I’d almost always wake up with some sort of erection. 

Well, one day, the humans left the door open, so I figured I’d go out there and kinda just roll around in the grass, I mean for fucks sake the carpet inside would pull my hair and shit. It’s awful, the life of an indoor cat I mean. Mid roll around, I see this bastard make his way across the property line, prancing like he was the prince of princes. So I, being a cunning devil and all, crept into the woods just adjacent to where he loved to shit. Tip toed, slowly, so as not to disturb his BM. I mean, I was like a stealthy fucking Indian in those woods (the Christopher Columbus kind). It was all so wild and primitive, what I was doing. This bitch, Felix, he just walked around for the better part of 20 minutes, I’d never seen anything like it. You’d think his asshole was made of gold, the way he chose the perfect place to fertilize the ground. Finally, right when I was about to fall asleep he decided to make his move. He crouched his behind down, squatting now. Turned his nose to the sky and shut his eyes (it was my time to shine). I flew out of the woods on him so fast that he didn’t have time to react. My feet had never been so agile. Northwest foot, southeast foot, northeast foot, southwest foot, etc, etc—until I was right on that bastard. Got my claws around his neck and said:

“You like taking shits, on other peoples properties? Huh?” Oh you should have seen it. His eyes turned black and blue, and he was shaking. I had half a mind to kill him right then and there. And then, I don’t know what came over me, but I thought maybe if I started taking a shit right in front of him, and made him watch he might get the message a little more clearly. So I cocked his head back, just so he could see between my hind legs and laid one right there. Oh, you could see his face get all scared, he didn’t know what kinda motherfucker I was. Just before he died, I loosened my grip and let him fall to the ground. He scampered off, all defeated and what not. 

I knew he’d come back, but I sent the message, and god willing I get another chance—cause, I’ll put it on record now, he comes back, he’s a dead man.

So, at this point, I was pretty pleased with myself. I forgot I had taken the shit, that was adrenaline fueled pillow talk, you know? He had disappeared behind the fence and I, being so pleased with myself, thought I’d roll around for good pleasure. Yeah..splat, right into my own cream colored turd. The funny thing was, is I had forgot it was mine, and for half a minute was so heated about Felix, I was about to go and chase him down. Then, It all came back to me and I kinda laughed.

My humans called to me, and I figured I’d appease them, so I came sprinting back (double time). The bastards took one look at me and let out this groan, said bad kitty, oh that infuriated me something fierce. And, wouldn’t you know it, after all I had done for them, saving the yard and what not, they put me in a cardboard box and hosed me off. I decided right then and there that I was packing my things and moving out west (who needs ‘em). 

[alexanderchemcat]

One-in-a-Million High

So, I’m an individual, constantly trying to detach myself from the crowd. I think a lot of us are. Not full detachment—that would be social suicide—just show we are something that means something. That our little time on this planet and in this universe actually meant more than face value. I mean, I’m better than those kids who burned out in high school, and have a nowhere plan, right? Maybe I’m no Nikola Tesla or Mother Teresa, but dammit I still have a bunch of thoughts rolling through my head that I know have to lead to something great. Something better than just having a kid and passing the torch. Frankly, half the time I’m terrified that I’ll end up in a 9 to 5 hating every bit of my existence, you know. Maybe I’m being melodramatic, but maybe not. I don’t want to lose that childlike wonder that it seems many lose when they realize “welp, this is it, guess one day I die.” I don’t sit here and write this because I have any answers to this existential bullshit, I’m sitting here writing it, in hopes to find some answers. And If I don’t, so be it, still feels pretty damn good looking it in the face and trying to make an eloquent equation of words that may render it a little less intimidating. 

Look, I love the high that comes from thinking I’m special somehow. Thinking that God has manifested some sort of path where I will break through some wall and the people will Love and Loath me (strong emotions are all I need). But I think people probably build a tolerance to the...One-in-a-million high—we’ll call it. Like lets say for instance there was a girl, Jackie. 

Jackie, her whole young life, up to 18 she was the most terrific dancer. All the kids in her school always heard her name go across the announcements when she won some contest, or this or that. Her dad, her mom, her brothers and aunts always told her how amazing she was. People would ask her to show her stuff at parties and family reunions, and after a while that became the norm for her. Dancing became her life, because she was just so damn good at it. She was looking into going to a huge dancing school in New York after graduation, and she got in. First day, she realizes she is no longer the God herald prodigy that she thought she was, these other girls were way better than her. So what did she do? She danced and danced and danced, getting better each and every day. You couldn’t find that girl without her shoes attached. And wouldn’t you know it, she became the fucking best! All over again! The family was ecstatic, throwing parades in her honer, draining their retirement in hopes she’ll throw back some of her glorious prize money from the olympics and what not. Guess what? She made it. She was to dance in the summer olympics for the United States. She walked out into the world spotlight and got a fucking bronze medal, oh how you should have seen her dance. There is a big party for her when she comes back, family and friends all so fucking happy for her. They all laughed saying the thing was rigged in the first place and the fact that she even made it onto the board was her beating the odds. You know what Jackie did then? She trained, and trained. She gave up her chance of having a kid. She had but one boyfriend her whole life and then she just became another person after that bronze. Oh, she was so close to the golden apple, she had to taste it. So life took a stand still as she trained for the next four years. She made it again! She was now an old hat, all the younger girls looked up to her because they all thought she was just so great. And on the stage. That beautiful moment again, all eyes on her, with lust and envy. She danced like no one had ever danced before. It was as if the light of God was on the stage—every step a miracle. The score came back, and she got silver! Holy shit! Second best in show right! But where there should have been joy there was a small spec of hate building, because the girl that got gold was half her age, and on the United States team. So, what did she do? She went back to America, and fell into a deep depression and alienated all her friends. She started drinking, and then one day, nobody even knew her name. I heard she moved to Canada but that’s all hear-say. Long story short—the high was over. 

We just need to oscillate closer to true zero. Not these romantic highs and lows. Between happiness and sadness there is peace apparently. 

[alexanderchemcat]

Conspiracy Theory

We all know about those Pharma test subjects who get thrown some coins and take pills that no one has a clue about. Guinea pigs for the greater good and what not. Holding onto their allowance with strained fingers, hoping for the best. That one percent civil market. Feeding on the poor. 

Lesser known, the G.I. guinea pigs, laid to feast on the military might of their own country. Those poor bastards who sold their soul to Uncle Sam, but, sadly, they were his least favorite niblings. Sent out with a parade behind them, thinking they were the chosen virgins to save the country. Well, they were told to cover their eyes when the bomb fell, you know, cause if you can’t see it, it won’t hurt you. Too bad the x-rays wouldn’t allow the cloak of death to shroud out the mushroom. No—they could pick out every bone and blood vessel that hid just underneath their skin. See right through closed eyes and elbow pits. Poor bastards had no idea. Big Brother didn’t care if the offspring came out mutated—if they came out at all. But see it Big Brother’s their way, they were paying these poor fools, they were doing them a favor. Taking them out to the middle of the Pacific and dropping a Fat man near them to see what would happen. 

Just increasing military might. Gotta keep this land protected, I can’t argue with the cause I suppose, just keep paying those tax dollars, and pray I’m not drafted.

But now? We get into the fantastic science fiction of the present, and close future. We have the hydrogen bomb, and we’re pretty well versed about it as a species. So the next subjects have to explore some other terrain, say implants, and precise genetic mutation. 

Implants first. Look at that little phone you got. Secrets of the physical universe stored on it in an easy to use fashion. Whole encyclopedia collections and dictionaries available at a finger wave. But—what if we could eliminate touching that dirty screen? What if we could have everything, even easier? How about putting one of those things directly into the grooves of the brain? Well, thats what’s happening. Maybe take a second and find ‘Kernel,’ and you’ll see the mission statement. You’ll see they have some pretty cool ideas for a little chip that can go straight into to your brain. I know—some Black Mirror shit—but don’t count it out. They can do some really interesting things, like give paraplegic monkeys the ability to walk, amputees new functioning limbs, and—my favorite—telepathy with people around the world. No longer do you have to wonder what people think about you, you’ll know for a fact they think you’re incompetent. So, first, advertise the shit out of how much good this thing is going to do for those in need (it’s going to be the cure we have sought after for so long). Second, start testing military subjects (ding ding ding). Third, release for medical use (it saved my friend Jess from Parkinson’s). Fourth, advertise the shit out of the new superhero set of American infantry (those ‘Go Army’ commercials are about to get real cool). And fill in the blanks. Just in case you don’t want to I’ll say it—a consumer society with computers directly imbedded into our brains. Don’t need college anymore, just gotta save up for that $20,000 software update. You take the torch from there, a lot of good, a lot of bad. I don’t really stand on one side of the fight or the other, I just think we need to be careful about such a thing. I know, it’s a touchy subject, like masturbating before a funeral; but we need to have these discussions now. We need some conspiracy theorists yelling that its going to destroy the world, or at least write about it in a Tumblr blog no one reads.

The other theory, about gene mutation will be saved for another post. This above paragraph was the real bread and butter anyway. The other one is more just along the lines of cutting edge science using CRISPR. 

[alexanderchemcat]

I once had a friend named, lets say, Jack. He uh, he was a pretty swell guy, kinda crooked teeth, little yellow—probably on account of all the coffee he drank. Him and I, used to hang around the fishing hole late in the evening when the lifeguards had gone home. No one usually bothered us, we could do whatever we wanted, smoke, play on the slide, take shits and bury them. We had real good times over there. He told me one time that I was his best friend when we were sitting at the end of the dock. 

Our feet were dangling over the murky waters and he just looks over at me after this long day of shenanigans and says, “Alex man, you know, you’re” he paused, “you know you’re my best friend.” It was quiet, I wasn’t sure how to respond, no one had ever said something so, genuinely sentimental to me before. I let out a laugh through my nose to give something to the conversation. 

He looked back out across the water. The sun was starting to flatten out against the horizon. We were quiet, and then he continued, “I really haven’t ever found anyone that really seems to get me, and I,” he paused and continued faster, “I really just feel like you understand me.” He turned back and looked at me. I kept my face turned out towards the sky, not really sure if he was done. I snuck a peak at him, and then he leaned his head in towards mine. He shut his eyes, and puckered up, and I drew my head back. He opened his eyes and we were making eye contact in an uncomfortable way. He withdrew. I just sat with wide eyes looking out to the water. It was silent for a while. I could hear him muttering under his breath, I didn’t know what to say, so I just sort of sat there. I realized that he was too embarrassed to say a thing, so I began:

“Jack,” I started, not making eye contact, “I’m not gay.”

“Yeah man I understand,” he said, “I really don’t think I am either,” he paused, “I just felt something.” We were silent after that for a while. 

The sun was almost gone now. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want to leave with this awkward little encounter. I mean, we could get past something like this. I mean, I could take that as a complement. Kinda pet my ego a little bit, you know, I can turn a straight man gay. So I began to smile. 

“Jack,” I said. He looked at me and then darted his eyes down. I slugged him in the arm as a playful gesture, and began, “You’re my best friend dude, I’m not trying to do anything to make this confusing.” He smiled.

A car rolled up behind us as were concluding our story. It was a brown Catillac. Jack looked at me with wide eyes. “Alex,” he paused, “this is Mittens and his boys. You—you gotta get out of here.”

“What are you talking about?” I got nervous.

“It’s not you that they want,” he looked over at them as they stepped out of the car and began sniffing for us. “Run,” he whispered.

I tried to get an argument out but his eyes looked to emphatic to fight with. I crept up the dock slowly, my tail dragging across the splintering wood. I darted left at the end of the dock and managed to get behind a tree without getting spotted. I climbed a few branches up and watched the men comb the area. Jack sat at the end of the dock for a moment looking out over the water (what the fuck was this about). Jack shambled up to all fours and began walking straight towards the car. He got within thirty yards when the back door opened. Out stepped the most groomed cat I had ever seen. His fur was a deep thick white. He stood on his hind legs, resting his weight against the car, and then he began: 

“Oh if it isn’t little shit for brains,” Mittens laughed, “how did I know I’d find you here.” He spoke with an accent that I couldn’t place. “You made me drive all the way down to this little town to find you.” Jack didn’t say a word. “Oh come now,” the others surrounded Jack, “Is that any way to treat your old friend Mittens huh?” Jack stayed silent. Mittens got on all fours and swayed towards Jack. He began walking around him, sliding his tail around Jack’s neck. “You know Jack, you were always one of my favorites, it’s a damn shame you had to cross me like that.” Jack mumbled something, but I couldn’t make it out. “Oh so you think that I wanted to kill h’r? No, no J, you got it all wrong. I was only trying to protect you. She was trying to take you from me, and I just couldn’t let that happen.” 

“I haven’t said a word to anyone.” Jack spoke up firmly. He held his head high, looking Mittens into the eyes.

“I know you haven’t Jacky,” Mittens said. “You were always a good boy, but you see,” Mittens sighed, turned away, and faced the car. “What you are now is a loose end, and if there is one thing I don’t need,” he turned back, “it’s a loose end.” Jack dropped his head. “Don’t look so sad boy, you knew what this was. Now c’m on, let me look at those pretty eyes one last time.”

What happened next was hard to hear but it started off soft. Jack’s head sort of shook up and down, and then I heard this, uhh..laugh. It grew louder, and then Jack lifted his head and I could tell it was him. Jack was laughing like I hadn’t heard him laugh before. It was hysterical, mad even. And I just remember thinking (what the fuck is going on right now). Then Jack started:

“Mittens,” His voice didn’t even sound the same, “you sad little boy. You and I both know the boss didn’t order this hit out on me.” Mittens’s smile faded. “You were always the number two, and I know for a fact Boss probably rubbed you wrong saying things like ‘If that Jack were here, he woulda gotten things done right.’ So Mittens cut the shit and make your move, I ain’t got all day.” 

The grunts looked too Mittens and before he could say a word Jack continued. “But before you do I would like to direct your attention to my friend.” Jack said with a laugh. The lot of them looked about like buzzards, but Mittens kept his eyes square. “You see Mittens, I knew you couldn’t live in my shadow any longer, and that one day you’d be out here looking for me. So I hired a boy to wait in the bushes and whenever a car came, would get in position behind said car with a little artillery.”

Mittens stood on his hind legs, and looked back to the Catillac with wide eyes. 

Jack. I mean Jack was crazy. As soon as Mittens eyes left him he pulled a gun so fast from his ankle I barley even saw. He dove to the ground and landed three shots into that soft white fur. Mittens hissed and screamed. He turned around pulling his gun, trying to get a shot off, but only pulled the trigger once firing it into the air as he stumbled and fell. His white fur became matted with blood in seconds. Mittens laid coughing in the pool, as the life drained from him.

The shots still ripped through the empty air, as Jack stayed sprawled out with his gun aimed straight. I thought that was it. The grunts had their orders kill the target, but they all just looked at one another. Jack brought himself to his feet and looked around at them. They all nodded their heads to Jack, who stood on his hind legs. “Now boys, glad you all know the truth about Mittens. He was just a power hungry whore. You all get back in the car and tell the Boss what happened. I’ll be back up there in three days to tell him my side.” The grunts walked back to the car, leaving Mittens where he lay. The car pulled off and Jack stood over the body. The blood ran to the edge of his claws and stopped. 

Jack called for me. I hesitated, but I came. 

“Sorry you had to see that,” he said as I came up behind him. 

I was speechless.

“Look bud, it’s been a great Summer, but it looks like it’s time for me to go.” He looked at me, “tell the cops what they need to hear.” He picked the body up, took a few step, and looked back at me. “Hey,” he said, “Just so you know gay is an outdated label.” 

And he vanished into the cool air. Leaving me alone, and confused. I still go back to that watering hole every Summer—hoping he’ll be there. Just sitting at the end of the dock, kissing the sunshine.

[alexanderchemcat]

I tested out my theory of whether or not a human could comprehend the immensity of problems that befell a cat daily. I told them how worthless i felt and how no one ever remembers my name. I crawled onto the table while they were eating their pot roast, which I mind you they didn’t share, and told them x, y, and z about the difficulties of how a capitalistic structured society bred the end all of both culture and resources. They barely blinked. They sat, stuffing their fat grotesque faces, criticizing the weather man. I had just the fuck about enough of these pointless conversations so I intruded by throwing up on the table. That got a rise, how right it seems that the only thing that can actually get any sort of attention in this fucking world of ours is through violence and bodily fluids. 

I began to think that I was the only sane one left on this little flat disk that we call earth. I saw the younger girl put bleach into my water dish, that bitch always had it out for me. I pooped on her shoes. I’ve had, lately, nothing to really keep my mind from wandering so I began watching Wes Anderson flicks in the pantry when everyone is gone. He makes me want eat mice with a pinky out (what an amazing man). But you know what really set me off? You know what really made me decide that I could no longer stomach being in the same building with these ten toed bastards? It’s their incessant need to talk. I’m so fucking tired of watching their lips move that I go into their rooms at night and piss under their beds. Gratifying in the moment, but it doesn’t change anything. It’s like voting. You can do it, it can be a middle finger to someone, but you're not changing anything.

I wanted to make a political statement. So I did a bunch of drugs and put myself in the freezer until they realized their beloved Alexander had a frozen heart. I wrapped myself in a Marxist blanket and sat down for the deep sleep. Those fat fucks must be leashed to the fucking thing. I was barley hallucinating when they looked for fucking chicken fingers. 

I’ll run away. 

[alexanderchemcat]

The World Of Cats

This is my first post so don’t expect glamor right out the door. I want to first introduce to you my own problem that is weighing on me the most. I will start off with a haiku by Cat Tzu:

                                                         Early morning

                                                           soft meows

                                                          litter-box full.

Now me? I’m a pretty average white privileged cat. Have pretty much everything one could wish for: steady meals with canned food at night, catnip, a rug and couch to claw when the humans piss me off, plenty of room to roam around, etc. But lately it’s been hard for me to shake this feeling that something is missing. There’s a hole in me that these things can’t fill. Catnip used to take the edge off, but now just seems to put me in my head. I started trying some mind altering substances, you know the heavy shit, seeing if that would put me into some sort of trance like state. No panics, just some euphoria, but I could never really decipher any meaning from it. It was like a high, then the come down, and an after glow of about three days where I felt like I had the secret stowed away in my back pocket. But then, I start reeling back into my head again. So, I thought maybe the next step is some sort of spiritual enlightenment, Aldous Huxley brought me to this conclusion—wrote that these substances could mimic what the enlightened saw, perhaps just a glimpse into this more peaceful world. And for a while I could take my shits and smile, thinking i was actually working towards a stable enlightenment. But to be honest, this meditation stuff is gnawingly hard. I feel like, because I’m searching within like that, it furrther pushes the thought into my head that I’m not where I’m suppose to be, you know? I try to just take in the moments as they come, breath, listen to the humans chatter about mortgages and loans they need to pay off, and still it’s like I’m fucking watching myself do it. 

I’m thinking about running away—have been for a long time now. Not that my humans are bad, quite the contrary. I feel as if I’m in a rut and just need to be alone for a little while. Go out to Oregon or something, move out to the mountains, I’ve always had an inkling I would make a good mountain town city cat. Just want to take that sink or swim kinda leap, feel like I won’t be complete without it. 

Now I’ve reached the point in the story where I feel like I should wrap it up, and come up with a little moral, or 5 year plan for those of you who suffered through to this point, to show that I have some sort of reasoning for rabbling on for so long. Many of you are probably just stuck on the fact that I was even granted access to a computer, let alone type on the forsaken thing, but all will be revealed in due time. For now I will leave this little story of mine open, maybe I’ll get feedback in a few years by someone who stumble across this little work of art, and wanted to find out if there are canned sardines in Oregon (God I hope so). So my apologies to all who expected an actual anecdote of events, if that is your case you should probably just abandon ship right now. This is going to be some real metaphysical shit wiped across this screen, with occasional fictional stories. Perhaps one real one, but you’ll never know which one that is. 

So, I shall write more tomorrow about my continuing first world, spiritual, problems. Maybe make a story about a utopia of cats, I don’t know. And don’t forget, the world is your litter box.