Caterwauling

I oft want to post something, because bleeding the wound, no matter how shallow, always seems to make it heal faster.

Like, do I talk about the fact that every week in the 3:30 time slot, I receive at least one comment that makes me want to toss up a finger or two and hang up. And that today, even after that moment arrived, I can finally say I felt nothing and it didn’t even bother me. Like, oh that’s all you have? It’s like you didn’t even try!

But then I think about the years-at-a-time I’ve shut down this blog. I wouldn’t say my mental health was much improved. But not having to worry about what I wrote to self-soothe was, well, soothing.

Like when the Toon of Goon sent some unhinged email that a post I made (long before the era this email arrived in) was somehow related to that era. And I was like, nope, bitch, try again. That felt GOOD. I didn’t write a public post about the era in question. Shit, I didn’t even write that many PRIVATE ones that could have gone live/viral.

Anyway. I was just reading an essay about how care and support are luxuries that you are only entitled to TEMPORARILY … and that’s only if you’ve earned them under capitalism. That you’re unworthy of care if you are in some way unwell. (And/or, I infer, under-capitalized.)

And before that, I was reading an essay about how writing for oneself is the ultimate act of self-soothing. Like when people thank us for writing a piece, no thanks are needed. Writing it likely kept us from committing some form of self-harm (e.g., smoking, overeating, indulging in some sort of ridiculous behavior we enjoy as a coping mechanism from some trauma).

I think about that a lot. I deprive myself of writing. Let’s face it, I really only have a handful of losers who sit around rooting for my demise and a separate-but-equal number who actively trample on me because they are pure evil. There are plenty MORE people who want to see me shine. If only I’d let myself.

Anyway, the point of the first essay is that, though these are all private things that make us unwell or downright break us, they are actually communal. They were not caused in a vacuum and they should not be shouldered that way. I’m not talking about those who create their drama and exaggerate their mental/health problems to make them everyone else’s problem. I’m talking about all of us carrying around public and private wounds who didn’t self-inflict them. And even if we did, it was something in the collective that caused it and therefore it’s really all of our problems until it is assuaged somewhat.

Like, I miss my Cocoa so much, I can’t stand myself. Yes, it is my grief. It is my pain for … what? Having loved a furry little girl so much that my heart burst with joy when she was mine? How about look around at all the assholes who mistreat animals and, I’ll say it, me. How about everyone who let me the fuck down so much that my best friend on earth was a tiny 6-pound cat who brought me nothing but love and acceptance and loyalty I’ve never enjoyed before because every human I’ve encountered is fully incapable of it? I don’t expect anyone to fix it. Let me just be sad without making it worse. As it’s been said, so many people have nothing yet can’t even enjoy the nothing they have in peace. If you can’t help, just don’t plunge the knife in any further. And if you can’t in fact help, why the fuck not?

A week late, yes, but I was on time on the day.

A friend of mine left the world on that date last year. I didn’t find out till a little later.

This year I sent all the condolences early in the day. And I had a gift that arrived on the 11th to the youngest person with a broken heart. So she could have something to smile about.

The one who broke the news to me wanted me to tell old friends. One in particular. He keeps asking me if I did.

Look. This friend was so into abusive boyfriends and complaining to me about them and not, say, changing her situation that I quit returning her calls.

I heard from my recently passed friend that the friend had gotten married. To a guy with the first name of her first boyfriend. A guy who happened to smile at me after they broke up in a way that made her lose her religion. You know, the whole if I can’t have him, neither can you thing.

In any event, I do know she changed her name and had a couple kids with the second guy by that name. Maybe she did that full circle from good guy to abusive fuckers to good guy. Let’s hope.

I did fuck up a bit and let the cat out of the bag with a friend of yesteryear. Whom I told hey, she was private and I haven’t told anyone, but she’s gone and that’s why she isn’t answering your message.

Well.

I got texts from two friends like whaaaat we just heard.

I was terrified for a minute. But they were so nice. They loved her and knew I had to be hurting.

Like, I forget that people in this world are good. And that they loved someone I loved, even better.

It sucks that my friend is gone. But I kind of got this interesting little extended network that I didn’t really have before.

The gift I gave involved a ladybug. The gift I wanted to give involved a camera.

But we both knew this person at different phases of their life and made different associations. So much as I wanted to buy MY preferred present, I gifted the other.

That’s the part that’s hardest to swallow. That this person wanted so badly to know more about my friend’s past. And she truly thought she’d never get it.

But then one day I messaged out of the blue, and she said I was just telling my husband that I didn’t know any of her friends to even ask questions of. And here you come, telling me all these great stories and keeping her memory alive for me.

Seems like we needed each other and would have never known it. So, gotta say I am SO glad for social media and remembering this then-2-year-old’s name all this time so I could look her up and strike up this beautiful little relationship.

I would never say things happen for a reason. But I will say that you can create good. And, if you’re lucky, you can find enough motivation to get you to the next day, and the next, and so on.

No secret that we get harassed for feeding community cats here. Which … plenty of county statues support our efforts.

They are fixed. They were taken from/released to this land. There is precedent for feeding them.

YET.

A batch of trumpers have been harassing the feeders. So we go in the dark.

And now, these trumpers have collectively formed a thought and dumped cat food out in giant piles, photographed it, and submitted complaints that WE are doing it.

Like, yeah I might leave some extra, but I am not putting piles into guest parking spots, you dolts. Jesus. Stupid as your fucking leader. (HOA or twice-impeached, 91-time-criminally-indicted turd. Both apply.)

Also when we put out food and then these human animals stomp out and scare the kiddos away … of course the food gets left. That’s when they take photos, to “prove” we are leaving excess food. Bitch, you stomped on my kids’ dinners. You can eat ME.

And we get hell to pay if we dare leave a tiny dish of water out overnight after letting these kids swelter all day.

Seriously, I leave a dish out at 8 p.m. and pick it up at 6 a.m. HELL TO PAY, I tell you.

Well. It’s gotten worse.

Carl Z. and his loser daughter Lauren (the one who choked an elderly lady and tried to punch me) were seen in the bushes the other night. I had left water at 5 as I was on my way to the Kravis.

After it got dark, a cage appeared and these two nuts were either the ones who put it there, or were putting food in it. On parchment paper. Quaint.

Well. Our gray boy has been gone ever since. I last saw him the morning before I went to the Kravis.

And all I will say is the cage is now gone too.

And the nasty bitch MJ whose twin is the fuckface Frank who harassed me for two years about wearing a mask is now asking where HER cage went to.

Try the intracoastal, is all I will say about that.

I have been in absolute anxiety-ridden meltdown mode ever since that cage, well, disappeared. Like, what did those fuckers manage to do while I wasn’t around for a few hours? Where is my boy?

I have been on the phone with Animal Control ever since Lauren tried to punch me out.

I have talked to every TNR group I can find. Fuckin Danika keeps rejecting my membership in one of them because I didn’t enjoy having her barfy poodles in my house, what, 15 years ago? I told one of the local rescues about her petty ass.

Anyway, my co-feeder and the one who really manages the community and gets flea and worm meds onto these babies has gone to the police and another local rescue group. Between the two of us, we have all the paperwork and legalities on our side.

But then this fuckin place is still threatening to put liens against our units. And in my Overnight Legal Scholar Era, I’ve learned they CAN do it because the property manager (who is new and a fucking idiot) has the final say.

Anyway, it’s war down here on the Intracoastal.

I was telling my friend, I go out in my jammies. Hair undone. No phone. And I get cameras in my face.

So now I get dressed. Go to the bathroom. Bring my phone. Bring a knife. Bring water and a bowl and treats and whatever fucking else I feel like bringing.

My friend said the same thing. Including some chewing gum in case she gets yelled at again and needs a moment to think. (She’s so nice — I will eviscerate them verbally, but she’s the peacemaker.)

Basically like I say, I have to dress for prison. In something I will enjoy wearing for a few days. Though my ex used to tell me that I can’t afford the bail. (And he knew about my bail money fund that I keep around for feeding times and work events.)

Not only am I sick over what they will do to the rest of my tiny, docile cats. But I also fret about did I leave too much food? Like, if my boy does come back I always have extra for him. He’s such a hungry boy. He would always finish any leftovers.

This is all literally killing me. I need for those assholes to be the one to get their “Carl-ma.” Including the bitch with the Genesis and her little Spanish bitch-boy with her old Genesis she gave him.

Can’t wait for MJ to go back to Connecticut or hell or wherever she’s from. But I can’t get rid of these other assholes for the summer. And they all only moved here in like 2022.

God I miss the days before they existed. Our BFF kiddos Fancy and Whiskers (they greet/love on each other before they will eat) were here since at least 2015 when the units next door were built. Amelia’s been here at least 11 years since she was pregnant and my friend adopted out her litter and got her fixed. Poppins, at least 8 years. Smalls and Meatball have been here at least a year. Again, most got here before Lurch and Left-Hook Lurch and those Genesis goons.

I want to move, but I know there will be assholes wherever I go too. But, I am so ready for a different set of assholes.

We were set to see “Jagged Little Pill” last week. But my fancy friend got invited to speak at a Vegas conference, so we punted the tickets to Sunday.

And thank goodness. My stalker posted that they went to the Thursday show. And posted a photo from what appeared to be a couple seats over from our regular spot.

I’d say weirdo, but the fact that their tasteless ass didn’t enjoy the show was weirder still. And if the Loge isn’t high-falutin’ enough for you, well. Enjoy paying $10 more to be the exact same distance from the stage. Freak.

Well the really weird part was them insulting me down for going. But THEY went. And sat in OUR section. So, ooooookkay then.

Then this dipshit decided to announce that they got tickets to the next show and made it a point to say it wasn’t on the same day someone else goes.

I would assume that’s me. But she called them stalker.

My theater-going friend read that shit and texted me, um, the one who got OUR (unknowingly to them, forfeited) tickets on OUR night does not know what the word stalker means.

“I don’t want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I don’t want to be your idol
See this pedestal is high and I’m afraid of heights
I don’t want to be lived through
A vicarious occasion
Please open the window.”
— Alanis Morrissette, “Not the Doctor”

Alanis has a song, “Not the Doctor.” I’m going to go ahead and say thank you for proving that I’m not the stalker, no matter how you try to convince #taxtwitter that you are a saint.