Sad.

Apr. 1st, 2008 07:20 pm
naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
Got bad news today.

My dad had to have Mathurin put down.

Long-time readers will remember Matt. (Mathurin's entries, obviously, are tagged appropriately.) He was my first black cat. Got him when I was 14. He's been living with my dad. The old cat was senile and crazy, but it was a happy kind of crazy, so we never really felt it would be right to put him under. He recently took a turn downhill, though, and when Dad took him to the vet for suddenly losing control of his various bodily functions, they agreed it was time.

I am sorry I was not there for him, but I am very glad that Dad did the right thing -- and it was the right thing.

I am going to miss the old bastard. Thinking about it, he was very old. Almost 17. This is not unexpected, but it does make me sad. He was a hell of a cat. Read through his entries; you will find the episode where he killed the rat and ate half of it in our kitchen. Also, I think the explanation about why we called him "The Eater of Heads" is in there, too, and possibly the story about how he earned the nickname "Buttfoam." He was a real Cat of Quality.

The picture below is the mean old man himself, chilling out on [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva's leg. She is so lucky he never drooled on her. He was a very drooly cat.

Mathurin

In other sad news, my dad also had to have my mother's dog put down. Stanci has never been quite right since Mom died. Her liver apparently just . . . failed. She was not suffering greatly, but she would have become quite miserable in a few days if he hadn't taken pity on her.

She was a great dog. Pomeranians have a bad rep as yappy little pests, and poorly-trained ones can be pretty obnoxious, but Stanci exhibited all of the best features of the breed: great intelligence, devotion and sweetness. Stanci could count, or at least compare numbers of things and see that one group was larger and one smaller; she understood "You have more biscuits than me." She spent every minute near my mother, much as Tazendra does with me. They were inseparable. I mean, for fuck's sake, we had to carry Stanci out of the room after Mother died because she would not leave on her own. Worst thing I ever did see.

If there's any continuation for us, I believe that animals get it, too, so I suppose I can think of them as together again and feel a little better.

Honestly, I didn't expect Stanci to outlive Mom by this much. She was not young, either.

The picture below is of Stanci and Wolfie; they were best friends. Wolfie was an incredibly loving and stupid twenty-pound throwback of a Pom. He died long, long ago. They loved one another a lot, as you can clearly see. It is Stanci who's getting kissed. I suppose they're together, too, now.

Stanci and Wolfie

I'm awfully sad about it all, even though it's for the best. It's still like . . . well . . . Mathurin was the last living part of my youth. And Stanci was part of my mother. So it's like losing more than just little friends. It's like losing the parts of my life they had come to symbolize.

And I feel bad for my dad, too, who had to put them both down. Especially Stanci, who was my mom's. Dad is very nondemonstrative, but he admitted that it was a really hard one. For him to have said that says a lot.

Tazendra is on my legs right now, dreaming of who knows what, twitching in her sleep. She had roast beef yesterday, and slept with me all night, and has made me laugh several times today.

They really aren't replaceable.

They don't live forever. We choose to love them anyway.

Sad.

Apr. 1st, 2008 07:20 pm
naamah_darling: Sepia picture of Heath Ledger from A Knight's Tale with the words "I Miss You." (Heath Miss You)
Got bad news today.

My dad had to have Mathurin put down.

Long-time readers will remember Matt. (Mathurin's entries, obviously, are tagged appropriately.) He was my first black cat. Got him when I was 14. He's been living with my dad. The old cat was senile and crazy, but it was a happy kind of crazy, so we never really felt it would be right to put him under. He recently took a turn downhill, though, and when Dad took him to the vet for suddenly losing control of his various bodily functions, they agreed it was time.

I am sorry I was not there for him, but I am very glad that Dad did the right thing -- and it was the right thing.

I am going to miss the old bastard. Thinking about it, he was very old. Almost 17. This is not unexpected, but it does make me sad. He was a hell of a cat. Read through his entries; you will find the episode where he killed the rat and ate half of it in our kitchen. Also, I think the explanation about why we called him "The Eater of Heads" is in there, too, and possibly the story about how he earned the nickname "Buttfoam." He was a real Cat of Quality.

The picture below is the mean old man himself, chilling out on [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva's leg. She is so lucky he never drooled on her. He was a very drooly cat.

Mathurin

In other sad news, my dad also had to have my mother's dog put down. Stanci has never been quite right since Mom died. Her liver apparently just . . . failed. She was not suffering greatly, but she would have become quite miserable in a few days if he hadn't taken pity on her.

She was a great dog. Pomeranians have a bad rep as yappy little pests, and poorly-trained ones can be pretty obnoxious, but Stanci exhibited all of the best features of the breed: great intelligence, devotion and sweetness. Stanci could count, or at least compare numbers of things and see that one group was larger and one smaller; she understood "You have more biscuits than me." She spent every minute near my mother, much as Tazendra does with me. They were inseparable. I mean, for fuck's sake, we had to carry Stanci out of the room after Mother died because she would not leave on her own. Worst thing I ever did see.

If there's any continuation for us, I believe that animals get it, too, so I suppose I can think of them as together again and feel a little better.

Honestly, I didn't expect Stanci to outlive Mom by this much. She was not young, either.

The picture below is of Stanci and Wolfie; they were best friends. Wolfie was an incredibly loving and stupid twenty-pound throwback of a Pom. He died long, long ago. They loved one another a lot, as you can clearly see. It is Stanci who's getting kissed. I suppose they're together, too, now.

Stanci and Wolfie

I'm awfully sad about it all, even though it's for the best. It's still like . . . well . . . Mathurin was the last living part of my youth. And Stanci was part of my mother. So it's like losing more than just little friends. It's like losing the parts of my life they had come to symbolize.

And I feel bad for my dad, too, who had to put them both down. Especially Stanci, who was my mom's. Dad is very nondemonstrative, but he admitted that it was a really hard one. For him to have said that says a lot.

Tazendra is on my legs right now, dreaming of who knows what, twitching in her sleep. She had roast beef yesterday, and slept with me all night, and has made me laugh several times today.

They really aren't replaceable.

They don't live forever. We choose to love them anyway.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Renaissance Woman)
I should be sleeping. Right? Sleeping? Isn't that what people do when it's 4:30 a.m. and they have shit to do the next day like, oh, give blood and see friends and do art show stuff and paint and write and buy flea treatment for the mammals and feed snakes and . . . and . . . and?

Sleeping.

Right.

The birthday was good, as I have said. Just what I needed, just who I needed, just when I needed it. And that's . . . all I needed.

I had the added bonus of ridding myself of a pain in my ass the next day. I feel profoundly guilty, but also relieved beyond my ability to express, because I have given Mathurin back to Dad. I'd feel worse but he remembers the old house just fine, he has rats to hunt, and no other cats to fight with. He's happier. And we're happier too, without his howling and his mess -- he could not eat without smearing a four-foot area with wet cat food. I kid you not. He had to remove each individual mouthful from the dish and put it on the clean floor. Bastard. Dad is apparently coping. I really hope he doesn't change his mind. At this point, the other cats are getting along swimmingly, and I don't think they'd accept Matt back in. I think they would gang up and murder him the minute he came out of the carrier. Mostly I feel guilty because this was a decision that was made mostly for my sanity, not anyone else's. But, then, it was nothing but screaming catfights, howling for food, claws in my leg, stolen dinners, and broken plates. Anyone would have snapped. I'm surprised I lasted a year.

My granddad is in a really nice assisted-care facility. Nursing home. Raisin ranch. Whatever you call it, and however pleasant it appears to be, it's still pretty fucking awful. I haven't gone to see him yet, though I need to. It's just that places like that . . . I can't explain it. The taint of human suffering, the psychic aura of despair and death, it really gets to me. I often have nightmares after going into hospitals, no matter the occasion. Nursing homes are only a little better. They're less horrifying and more sad. Like an oubliette. "A place you put someone to forget about them." He is apparently not very lucid most of the time, and since by law they aren't allowed to tie up the inmates, he's always trying to get up and escape. He's fallen multiple times, and last time was bad -- he hit his head pretty hard.

There is no dignity to this. There is no fairness, no right sense of life or grace or continuity. I know without a doubt that were he in his right mind he would not want to continue like this, but the truth is that there's nothing to be done, and that he won't last long anyway; he's ninety, and he's taken a major turn downhill. How long can he hang on? It's fucking horrible and tragic. You don't want to see a strong man like this, but Intervention and Medicine are the lenses through which society understands death, so you just have to keep your mouth shut and pray that by the time you're old, it will be legal to have yourself gently put under, if that's what you want.

No, I don't want him dead. But I'm not one of those people who wishes life on others. I'd prefer someone step out, if they must, rather than linger in discomfort or dementia. I hate, hate, to think of them suffering. Of being locked in a broken body, with a broken mind. And I hate the people more, those who jail us in our old age. Doctors, relatives, caretakers. People who won't let us go, or help us. I'm not pointing fingers in this case, it's being handled as well as anyone could handle it. I'm just saying that the way our society is built, we torture our elderly. For ourselves and others, we value clinging to life more than embracing death. And there is no mechanism to allow us to simply step out. We're hassled every step of the way to do more, try harder, keep on living. For god's sake. It's awful.

I'm agnostic-bordering-atheist, but I wonder. If we have souls, and I think we might, the soul knows what our body knows, and more than that. Our soul, once we die, remembers what we once were, doesn't it? It has a perfect memory, of everything from the moment of birth right up until. So what about people like this, whose minds are fragmented, failing, fugitive? Is the soul imprisoned there, knowing, trapped like a moth in a lantern? Does the soul leap out on the moment of death, remembering all that the body had forgotten, and profoundly relieved to be rid of the burden of flesh? Or is the inner life of the soul itself a random kaleidoscope of memories and feelings, indistinguishable from the fugues of dementia and only hampered in some glorious expression by the shabby coat of flesh we all wear to our graves?

It's questions like that I have no tolerance for from other people, questions like that which make me believe that it's easier, if not more reassuring, to say that we're just animals, all synapses and neurotransmitters and vague fears and memories and bare naked instinct, with no more depth to us than that.

Arrrgh. I promised myself I wasn't going to get maudlin or philosophical. I'm sick of that shit. Makes me sick. I'm sorry.

At any rate, it's been much on my mind. There are no answers, not that I can accept from anyone else, so as always I'm left to find my own. I'm comfortable with that, actually.

Things have improved significantly. All the panic, anxiety, dread, fear, etc. that I've been wrestling with is retreating, or being held at bay. I am taking kava extract for my twitchiness, have been taking it for a week now, and it's fucking amazing stuff. It's a clear amber liquid, it smells of composted flowers, and when I drop it into my tea three times a day, it bursts into cloudy explosions, a creamy yellow louche like venom. It's my Potion. And it has restored about two thirds of my sanity and functionality. Which is more than any pissant SSRI ever did for me. Fuck your Prozac, the kavalactones have made me their bitch. With no side effects, I might add. Who's your daddy now?

And I've been reading a book, which is always a bad and boring thing to say in the context of feeling better about oneself, only this one has explained so much about me, and other people, that I can't even articulate the difference it has made. "The Highly Sensitive Person" by Elaine Aron puts a new face on parts of my personality I have always wrestled with: my dislike of noise, sensitivity to medications, vivid dreams, fear of doctors, inability to be out of the house for more than two hours without becoming hopelessly overstimulated . . . I could go on and on and on. Suffice it to say that if you go to this page and look at the questions, and it seems like you are a highly sensitive person, or your spouse or child is, get the book. Please.

Thank you, David, for getting it to me. It came at a very good time. And way back when, someone directed me to that very page, that very quiz. I don't remember who it was, and I'm so sorry. I tried to find the post and couldn't. Speak up, if it was you. I owe you a very big thank you. Without that, I would not have added that book to my wish list.

Anyway, I see I have a lot of work ahead of me, a lot, but I'm starting to feel like I at least know which end of the sword to hold. The pointy end goes into the other man. And that's a start, right?

I can't change what I am. I can at least understand it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Renaissance Woman)
I should be sleeping. Right? Sleeping? Isn't that what people do when it's 4:30 a.m. and they have shit to do the next day like, oh, give blood and see friends and do art show stuff and paint and write and buy flea treatment for the mammals and feed snakes and . . . and . . . and?

Sleeping.

Right.

The birthday was good, as I have said. Just what I needed, just who I needed, just when I needed it. And that's . . . all I needed.

I had the added bonus of ridding myself of a pain in my ass the next day. I feel profoundly guilty, but also relieved beyond my ability to express, because I have given Mathurin back to Dad. I'd feel worse but he remembers the old house just fine, he has rats to hunt, and no other cats to fight with. He's happier. And we're happier too, without his howling and his mess -- he could not eat without smearing a four-foot area with wet cat food. I kid you not. He had to remove each individual mouthful from the dish and put it on the clean floor. Bastard. Dad is apparently coping. I really hope he doesn't change his mind. At this point, the other cats are getting along swimmingly, and I don't think they'd accept Matt back in. I think they would gang up and murder him the minute he came out of the carrier. Mostly I feel guilty because this was a decision that was made mostly for my sanity, not anyone else's. But, then, it was nothing but screaming catfights, howling for food, claws in my leg, stolen dinners, and broken plates. Anyone would have snapped. I'm surprised I lasted a year.

My granddad is in a really nice assisted-care facility. Nursing home. Raisin ranch. Whatever you call it, and however pleasant it appears to be, it's still pretty fucking awful. I haven't gone to see him yet, though I need to. It's just that places like that . . . I can't explain it. The taint of human suffering, the psychic aura of despair and death, it really gets to me. I often have nightmares after going into hospitals, no matter the occasion. Nursing homes are only a little better. They're less horrifying and more sad. Like an oubliette. "A place you put someone to forget about them." He is apparently not very lucid most of the time, and since by law they aren't allowed to tie up the inmates, he's always trying to get up and escape. He's fallen multiple times, and last time was bad -- he hit his head pretty hard.

There is no dignity to this. There is no fairness, no right sense of life or grace or continuity. I know without a doubt that were he in his right mind he would not want to continue like this, but the truth is that there's nothing to be done, and that he won't last long anyway; he's ninety, and he's taken a major turn downhill. How long can he hang on? It's fucking horrible and tragic. You don't want to see a strong man like this, but Intervention and Medicine are the lenses through which society understands death, so you just have to keep your mouth shut and pray that by the time you're old, it will be legal to have yourself gently put under, if that's what you want.

No, I don't want him dead. But I'm not one of those people who wishes life on others. I'd prefer someone step out, if they must, rather than linger in discomfort or dementia. I hate, hate, to think of them suffering. Of being locked in a broken body, with a broken mind. And I hate the people more, those who jail us in our old age. Doctors, relatives, caretakers. People who won't let us go, or help us. I'm not pointing fingers in this case, it's being handled as well as anyone could handle it. I'm just saying that the way our society is built, we torture our elderly. For ourselves and others, we value clinging to life more than embracing death. And there is no mechanism to allow us to simply step out. We're hassled every step of the way to do more, try harder, keep on living. For god's sake. It's awful.

I'm agnostic-bordering-atheist, but I wonder. If we have souls, and I think we might, the soul knows what our body knows, and more than that. Our soul, once we die, remembers what we once were, doesn't it? It has a perfect memory, of everything from the moment of birth right up until. So what about people like this, whose minds are fragmented, failing, fugitive? Is the soul imprisoned there, knowing, trapped like a moth in a lantern? Does the soul leap out on the moment of death, remembering all that the body had forgotten, and profoundly relieved to be rid of the burden of flesh? Or is the inner life of the soul itself a random kaleidoscope of memories and feelings, indistinguishable from the fugues of dementia and only hampered in some glorious expression by the shabby coat of flesh we all wear to our graves?

It's questions like that I have no tolerance for from other people, questions like that which make me believe that it's easier, if not more reassuring, to say that we're just animals, all synapses and neurotransmitters and vague fears and memories and bare naked instinct, with no more depth to us than that.

Arrrgh. I promised myself I wasn't going to get maudlin or philosophical. I'm sick of that shit. Makes me sick. I'm sorry.

At any rate, it's been much on my mind. There are no answers, not that I can accept from anyone else, so as always I'm left to find my own. I'm comfortable with that, actually.

Things have improved significantly. All the panic, anxiety, dread, fear, etc. that I've been wrestling with is retreating, or being held at bay. I am taking kava extract for my twitchiness, have been taking it for a week now, and it's fucking amazing stuff. It's a clear amber liquid, it smells of composted flowers, and when I drop it into my tea three times a day, it bursts into cloudy explosions, a creamy yellow louche like venom. It's my Potion. And it has restored about two thirds of my sanity and functionality. Which is more than any pissant SSRI ever did for me. Fuck your Prozac, the kavalactones have made me their bitch. With no side effects, I might add. Who's your daddy now?

And I've been reading a book, which is always a bad and boring thing to say in the context of feeling better about oneself, only this one has explained so much about me, and other people, that I can't even articulate the difference it has made. "The Highly Sensitive Person" by Elaine Aron puts a new face on parts of my personality I have always wrestled with: my dislike of noise, sensitivity to medications, vivid dreams, fear of doctors, inability to be out of the house for more than two hours without becoming hopelessly overstimulated . . . I could go on and on and on. Suffice it to say that if you go to this page and look at the questions, and it seems like you are a highly sensitive person, or your spouse or child is, get the book. Please.

Thank you, David, for getting it to me. It came at a very good time. And way back when, someone directed me to that very page, that very quiz. I don't remember who it was, and I'm so sorry. I tried to find the post and couldn't. Speak up, if it was you. I owe you a very big thank you. Without that, I would not have added that book to my wish list.

Anyway, I see I have a lot of work ahead of me, a lot, but I'm starting to feel like I at least know which end of the sword to hold. The pointy end goes into the other man. And that's a start, right?

I can't change what I am. I can at least understand it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Cat Pee On Bang)
Kee-rist.

Mathurin is going senile, I swear to god. He's always been dotty; even in his youth he enjoyed being spanked, beheaded all manner of wildlife, and in his spare time he would crouch furtively in the closet, diligently chewing the seams of our clothing and all of our shoelaces. You could hear him in there, the quiet creak, creak of his fangs piercing hemlines and bootlaces. But lately, he's gone genuinely batshit insane. Senile.

Just in the past three weeks, it's become marked. I'm not surprised, he's fifteen for god's sake, but it's really worsened lately.

He forgets when he's been fed. At first, this was a lag of half an hour, but now he forgets almost instantly. He will follow you to his bowl, watch you put food in it, then follow you back to the cabinet where the food is kept as soon as you go that way, forgetting all about the food in his dish. Meanwhile, the other cats shark in and eat it, and since he has no idea it's there, he pays them no mind. You have to make sure he pays enough attention to the plate and not the magic food-giving hands to actually notice that there is food there, not just eternally forthcoming.

Today, he howled for food with food in his mouth. He was eating, Sargon touched the Magic Cabinet, and Matt ran over and started yowling, with gooshy food dripping out of his mouth. Some cats are that fucking stupid and crazy from birth, but for him, this is new.

That's a lot of nuts!!! )

Yeah, it's all kind of funny, but it's also just plain sad. I feel bad for Matt. He's old, this is not the house he grew up in, and he's having to compete for resources and affection with three other cats who are far less noisy, annoying, stinky, knobby, and senile than he is. And there's really nothing I can do to help him. He's not even close to the point where I'll consider having him put down. He has a good life, still. He's mobile, alert, his senses are very sharp still, he's just out of his goddamn mind, and it's irritating the shit out of me having to constantly nudge him out of the way and endure his howling (and if you ignore it, by the way, he will start screaming and then he will climb your fucking leg with claws like pitons). And the cat fights aren't helping his case any.

When my dad comes back from vacation I'm going to politely ask if he'll take him back, since I think he's being made worse by being around other cats. He doesn't like them, and it puts a lot of stress on his withered old brain. I'd feel better if he were allowed to convalesce peacefully, and descend into insanity without the constant melodrama of cat fights and broken dishes. I don't like it, but he's clearly not doing so well here.

Meh. I'll have to see what we can work out. It's a shame he's going mad. Though it's hard to recall that when he's all bony and dirty and smelly and absolutely bugfuck nuts, he used to be quite a formidable cat. I hate to see him like this.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Cat Pee On Bang)
Kee-rist.

Mathurin is going senile, I swear to god. He's always been dotty; even in his youth he enjoyed being spanked, beheaded all manner of wildlife, and in his spare time he would crouch furtively in the closet, diligently chewing the seams of our clothing and all of our shoelaces. You could hear him in there, the quiet creak, creak of his fangs piercing hemlines and bootlaces. But lately, he's gone genuinely batshit insane. Senile.

Just in the past three weeks, it's become marked. I'm not surprised, he's fifteen for god's sake, but it's really worsened lately.

He forgets when he's been fed. At first, this was a lag of half an hour, but now he forgets almost instantly. He will follow you to his bowl, watch you put food in it, then follow you back to the cabinet where the food is kept as soon as you go that way, forgetting all about the food in his dish. Meanwhile, the other cats shark in and eat it, and since he has no idea it's there, he pays them no mind. You have to make sure he pays enough attention to the plate and not the magic food-giving hands to actually notice that there is food there, not just eternally forthcoming.

Today, he howled for food with food in his mouth. He was eating, Sargon touched the Magic Cabinet, and Matt ran over and started yowling, with gooshy food dripping out of his mouth. Some cats are that fucking stupid and crazy from birth, but for him, this is new.

That's a lot of nuts!!! )

Yeah, it's all kind of funny, but it's also just plain sad. I feel bad for Matt. He's old, this is not the house he grew up in, and he's having to compete for resources and affection with three other cats who are far less noisy, annoying, stinky, knobby, and senile than he is. And there's really nothing I can do to help him. He's not even close to the point where I'll consider having him put down. He has a good life, still. He's mobile, alert, his senses are very sharp still, he's just out of his goddamn mind, and it's irritating the shit out of me having to constantly nudge him out of the way and endure his howling (and if you ignore it, by the way, he will start screaming and then he will climb your fucking leg with claws like pitons). And the cat fights aren't helping his case any.

When my dad comes back from vacation I'm going to politely ask if he'll take him back, since I think he's being made worse by being around other cats. He doesn't like them, and it puts a lot of stress on his withered old brain. I'd feel better if he were allowed to convalesce peacefully, and descend into insanity without the constant melodrama of cat fights and broken dishes. I don't like it, but he's clearly not doing so well here.

Meh. I'll have to see what we can work out. It's a shame he's going mad. Though it's hard to recall that when he's all bony and dirty and smelly and absolutely bugfuck nuts, he used to be quite a formidable cat. I hate to see him like this.

Stupid Day.

Feb. 3rd, 2006 04:04 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SMRT)
For those of you who may be laboring under the misconception that I am some sort of genius, I offer the following account of my day.

First, I almost mail my phone to California when the cat knocks it into an outgoing package. I only notice because it rings just as I'm preparing to tape it up. The postal employees found this quite amusing. "Stupidity," I tell them, "is a performance art."

Next, I'm stricken with a bout of upset stomach. Further contemplation reveals that it was probably caused by the handful of dog biscuits I ate yesterday. It was my own stupid fault. It seems normal to me to wonder if there was, in fact, a difference between the Milk-Bones I buy for my dogs and the off-brand imitations that my dad's dogs wouldn't eat; but to actually taste-test them, and from there investigate the various "flavors," that is not the action of a sane mind. I think no more needs to be said on that matter. (For the record, the white ones are the best, and while I think the off-brand has better flavor overall, their texture isn't as enjoyable.)

Then, in the course of topcoating my latest box, I manage to spill an entire half-bottle of acrylic sealer all over my only (not my best, my only) pair of pants that fit. Don't ask me how it happened. One minute, I'm cheerfully glossing the bottom of my box, and the next, my hand flies out of its own accord and somehow manages to knock the fucking thing toward me, where it splashes all over my leg. The stuff that wound up on the footstool and carpet was only there because it dripped off my leg first. This sealer, when wet, has the appearance and consistency of semen. I repeat: it's all over my leg. I looked like the victim of a drive-by ejaculation.

So I flee downstairs, sans pants and cursing like a drunken shipfitter, and start some laundry. Upon my return upstairs, armed with spray-bottle and paper towels, I discover that one of my cats has already seen fit to assist me in my cleanup by spilling my paint water all over the floor, turning the mixture into a repulsive slurry that is slowly seeping into my rug. I sop it up, only to realize that there is no bag in the downstairs trash, nor in the snake room trash, which is the next closest.

I flee to the kitchen garbage, and discover that Mathurin has thrown up all over the kitchen floor. As I begin to clean it up, he comes careening in at warp speed, because I'm doing something near the food bowl, and hovers over the puke, sniffing it insistently in between strident, ear-splitting howls, as if wondering whether the 30-second rule still applies. He actually tries to pull my hands down so he can get at what's in them. Irritated, covered with slowly-drying acrylic sealer, my hands full of cat-barf encrusted paper towels, I spray him in the ear with water. He goes tearing off, leaps onto the dining room table, and knocks my car keys square into the heating grate.

Now, it's only 4:00, and I've only been up for five hours. There is so much more that could go wrong today. I'm not even going to try decanting my BPAL limited editions, even though my wee empty bottles came today. The potential for horror is just too great.

All of this is funny, of course. There's un-funny as well – I've been exercising every day, but I had to take yesterday and today off because my leg is bothering me again. I expect it'll subside if I gently medicate it for a week or so, and maybe take it a little easier, but it nevertheless sucks. I'm at 80%, which is a damn sight better than the 40% or 50% I was a little under a year ago, but also a damn sight worse than the 110% I tend to demand of myself.

I'm also feeling incredibly tweeky today. I have that sick, sidelong feeling of a panic attack about to come. Like I've had too much caffeine, when I haven't had any in a week. There's no external trigger for this one, not that I can tell. Just a night of broken sleep and probably a high point in my panic cycle. It'll go away, it always does, but it still sucks to have that thin ice feeling all the time, like the sunny surface of the world is going to snap apart any moment and show you its rotting, grey guts.

I'm pretty certain that I'll feel better once I've cleaned my pants, put them back on, finished my box, and had some real food. So I'm off to do that, and I really hope that I've gotten all the stupid out of the way, and that nothing else goes wrong.

Stupid Day.

Feb. 3rd, 2006 04:04 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SMRT)
For those of you who may be laboring under the misconception that I am some sort of genius, I offer the following account of my day.

First, I almost mail my phone to California when the cat knocks it into an outgoing package. I only notice because it rings just as I'm preparing to tape it up. The postal employees found this quite amusing. "Stupidity," I tell them, "is a performance art."

Next, I'm stricken with a bout of upset stomach. Further contemplation reveals that it was probably caused by the handful of dog biscuits I ate yesterday. It was my own stupid fault. It seems normal to me to wonder if there was, in fact, a difference between the Milk-Bones I buy for my dogs and the off-brand imitations that my dad's dogs wouldn't eat; but to actually taste-test them, and from there investigate the various "flavors," that is not the action of a sane mind. I think no more needs to be said on that matter. (For the record, the white ones are the best, and while I think the off-brand has better flavor overall, their texture isn't as enjoyable.)

Then, in the course of topcoating my latest box, I manage to spill an entire half-bottle of acrylic sealer all over my only (not my best, my only) pair of pants that fit. Don't ask me how it happened. One minute, I'm cheerfully glossing the bottom of my box, and the next, my hand flies out of its own accord and somehow manages to knock the fucking thing toward me, where it splashes all over my leg. The stuff that wound up on the footstool and carpet was only there because it dripped off my leg first. This sealer, when wet, has the appearance and consistency of semen. I repeat: it's all over my leg. I looked like the victim of a drive-by ejaculation.

So I flee downstairs, sans pants and cursing like a drunken shipfitter, and start some laundry. Upon my return upstairs, armed with spray-bottle and paper towels, I discover that one of my cats has already seen fit to assist me in my cleanup by spilling my paint water all over the floor, turning the mixture into a repulsive slurry that is slowly seeping into my rug. I sop it up, only to realize that there is no bag in the downstairs trash, nor in the snake room trash, which is the next closest.

I flee to the kitchen garbage, and discover that Mathurin has thrown up all over the kitchen floor. As I begin to clean it up, he comes careening in at warp speed, because I'm doing something near the food bowl, and hovers over the puke, sniffing it insistently in between strident, ear-splitting howls, as if wondering whether the 30-second rule still applies. He actually tries to pull my hands down so he can get at what's in them. Irritated, covered with slowly-drying acrylic sealer, my hands full of cat-barf encrusted paper towels, I spray him in the ear with water. He goes tearing off, leaps onto the dining room table, and knocks my car keys square into the heating grate.

Now, it's only 4:00, and I've only been up for five hours. There is so much more that could go wrong today. I'm not even going to try decanting my BPAL limited editions, even though my wee empty bottles came today. The potential for horror is just too great.

All of this is funny, of course. There's un-funny as well – I've been exercising every day, but I had to take yesterday and today off because my leg is bothering me again. I expect it'll subside if I gently medicate it for a week or so, and maybe take it a little easier, but it nevertheless sucks. I'm at 80%, which is a damn sight better than the 40% or 50% I was a little under a year ago, but also a damn sight worse than the 110% I tend to demand of myself.

I'm also feeling incredibly tweeky today. I have that sick, sidelong feeling of a panic attack about to come. Like I've had too much caffeine, when I haven't had any in a week. There's no external trigger for this one, not that I can tell. Just a night of broken sleep and probably a high point in my panic cycle. It'll go away, it always does, but it still sucks to have that thin ice feeling all the time, like the sunny surface of the world is going to snap apart any moment and show you its rotting, grey guts.

I'm pretty certain that I'll feel better once I've cleaned my pants, put them back on, finished my box, and had some real food. So I'm off to do that, and I really hope that I've gotten all the stupid out of the way, and that nothing else goes wrong.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
Here's the all-purpose Weird Things picture dump, containing some pictures of Mathurin eating a dead rat (which you will have to click on to see, so don't worry), and some random Nazi-related strangeness.

Here you go. (It should go without saying, but won't, obviously, that if you are really strongly upset by a rat meeting its death at the claws of a "domesticated" animal, you should click the text links in the latter half with care.)

Nazi Daycare. )

Now. Let me tell you a story about Mathurin.

I'm not sensitive about "cause of death = cat," but you may not want to eat while reading this.

When I was but a young pup, and Mathurin barely more than a journeyman killer, I came home from school one day to see a white plastic bag on my parents' normally immaculate front porch.

"What is this?" I asked.

Mother pointed vengefully at the bag. "That is what I found on the porch this morning. Look. Go on. Look."

I'm expecting to find . . . I don't know what. My mom has always been a little bazokko if you know what I mean, so there could have been anything in that bag.

What I found was a dead mourning dove, perfect, not a feather out of place. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "It's so beautiful!"

"Your cat did that. Just look what he did!"

"But the body is perfect. How do you know it was -- eeeeeUUURRRGH!"

Because I'd pulled it out of the bag and turned it over. The upper right side of its head was gone, leaving nothing but the empty skull, which had been licked out clean like an eggshell. I couldn't help it. I began laughing. It was just like him, that nasty little killer.

Well, that became his trademark. He would kill squirrels, rats, birds, mice, rabbits, anything he could get his claws into. And he would eat their brains. So he became known as Mathurin, Eater of Heads. This is but one of many lame reasons that I love the movie "The Relic." Because clearly the monster, which munches human heads like Tootsie-Pops, is some sort of relative.

Mathurin continued this legacy of decapitation throughout his long stay at my parents' house, but his infamous career was cut short when we brought him home to live out the rest of his ungainly life cradled gently upon our bosoms.

Which brings me to the present.

After we went to see the Narnia movie, we were hungry. Into the kitchen Sargon went, only to hear a horrid sort of gnashing coming from within the curtained breakfast nook. There was, furthermore, a suspicious absence of Mathurin, who usually sharks about our ankles whenever we venture anywhere near the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. This is because he is always hungry. Clearly. Because he will eat anything.

That was when Sargon noticed the bloodstain.

And behind the curtain, what should he find? A guilty face, hunched over the grisly spoils of his crime.

Evidently, one of the rats we breed for snake food (yeah, yeah, I'm a carnivore, my pets are carnivores, deal) escaped, and Matt caught it. And ate half of it, starting with the head. And what should my husband do but take pictures of the whole thing? Or, rather, the half thing. Warning -- THAT link leads to a rather grody picture that is probably only funny to me because, well, I'm bent.

After owning 20+ cats in the course of my life, I tend to be far more pleased than less when they kill something, and frankly, it amuses the shit out of me when they betray themselves for the soulless little eaters of flesh that they are.

So. That's the weirdness.

Oh, yeah. For those of you who always wanted to see the Men-Men bag? There's a picture here.

I now go back to writing silly porn.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (KILL! KILL! KILL!)
Here's the all-purpose Weird Things picture dump, containing some pictures of Mathurin eating a dead rat (which you will have to click on to see, so don't worry), and some random Nazi-related strangeness.

Here you go. (It should go without saying, but won't, obviously, that if you are really strongly upset by a rat meeting its death at the claws of a "domesticated" animal, you should click the text links in the latter half with care.)

Nazi Daycare. )

Now. Let me tell you a story about Mathurin.

I'm not sensitive about "cause of death = cat," but you may not want to eat while reading this.

When I was but a young pup, and Mathurin barely more than a journeyman killer, I came home from school one day to see a white plastic bag on my parents' normally immaculate front porch.

"What is this?" I asked.

Mother pointed vengefully at the bag. "That is what I found on the porch this morning. Look. Go on. Look."

I'm expecting to find . . . I don't know what. My mom has always been a little bazokko if you know what I mean, so there could have been anything in that bag.

What I found was a dead mourning dove, perfect, not a feather out of place. "Oh!" I exclaimed. "It's so beautiful!"

"Your cat did that. Just look what he did!"

"But the body is perfect. How do you know it was -- eeeeeUUURRRGH!"

Because I'd pulled it out of the bag and turned it over. The upper right side of its head was gone, leaving nothing but the empty skull, which had been licked out clean like an eggshell. I couldn't help it. I began laughing. It was just like him, that nasty little killer.

Well, that became his trademark. He would kill squirrels, rats, birds, mice, rabbits, anything he could get his claws into. And he would eat their brains. So he became known as Mathurin, Eater of Heads. This is but one of many lame reasons that I love the movie "The Relic." Because clearly the monster, which munches human heads like Tootsie-Pops, is some sort of relative.

Mathurin continued this legacy of decapitation throughout his long stay at my parents' house, but his infamous career was cut short when we brought him home to live out the rest of his ungainly life cradled gently upon our bosoms.

Which brings me to the present.

After we went to see the Narnia movie, we were hungry. Into the kitchen Sargon went, only to hear a horrid sort of gnashing coming from within the curtained breakfast nook. There was, furthermore, a suspicious absence of Mathurin, who usually sharks about our ankles whenever we venture anywhere near the kitchen, screaming at the top of his lungs. This is because he is always hungry. Clearly. Because he will eat anything.

That was when Sargon noticed the bloodstain.

And behind the curtain, what should he find? A guilty face, hunched over the grisly spoils of his crime.

Evidently, one of the rats we breed for snake food (yeah, yeah, I'm a carnivore, my pets are carnivores, deal) escaped, and Matt caught it. And ate half of it, starting with the head. And what should my husband do but take pictures of the whole thing? Or, rather, the half thing. Warning -- THAT link leads to a rather grody picture that is probably only funny to me because, well, I'm bent.

After owning 20+ cats in the course of my life, I tend to be far more pleased than less when they kill something, and frankly, it amuses the shit out of me when they betray themselves for the soulless little eaters of flesh that they are.

So. That's the weirdness.

Oh, yeah. For those of you who always wanted to see the Men-Men bag? There's a picture here.

I now go back to writing silly porn.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (The Mocus)
Since you are all far wiser in the ways of cookery than I, I appeal: does anyone know of a good dairy-free apple pie recipe? I want to make something dessert-like to show familial solidarity with the in-laws, but Sargon's dad, Dad the Terrible, can't have milk products. My cooking lore is at a loss, here. Any advice will be much appreciated.

As incentive, I offer you amusing pictures under the cut.

You know I can't resist spamming you all with pictures of my cats. Because I'm an internet tyrant like that. )


Even the addition of kitty ears does not confer upon me the title of The Mocus.

Clearly I have far to go in my quest for the rank of Master.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (The Mocus)
Since you are all far wiser in the ways of cookery than I, I appeal: does anyone know of a good dairy-free apple pie recipe? I want to make something dessert-like to show familial solidarity with the in-laws, but Sargon's dad, Dad the Terrible, can't have milk products. My cooking lore is at a loss, here. Any advice will be much appreciated.

As incentive, I offer you amusing pictures under the cut.

You know I can't resist spamming you all with pictures of my cats. Because I'm an internet tyrant like that. )


Even the addition of kitty ears does not confer upon me the title of The Mocus.

Clearly I have far to go in my quest for the rank of Master.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I will spare you the doings of the past few days, all of which would either involve copious amounts of carpet cleaning, weed control, and TMI (not related), and simply cut to the chase.


Item One: I have a cold of some kind.

This is utterly stupid, as it's topping one hundred degrees outside with fair regularity. For you people who don't measure temperatures in American, one hundred degrees is about the temperature at which Naamah stops functioning. Coincidentally, it is also the internal temperature at which I appear to be running. Aren't fevers fun?

On the bright side, I've always been one of those lucky bitches who gets really cool fever dreams, and when I have a fever I write extremely well, so it's not all bad news.


Item Two: I am going to murder my cats.

Fish and Mathurin don't give a shit about each other, or any of the other cats. They are not the source of the problem. It's the other two. You know. The two I've had longest and who should, by rights, know better than to fuck with Mommy when Mommy does not feel well.

Tazendra has taken it upon herself to hiss and moan every time she sees any of the other three, and Sif has gone feral, and will attack any of the others who come within ten feet of her. Yesterday she attacked the dog.

Let me make this clear. The dog is, by my math, seven and a half times her size. And yet she latched onto his snout like one of those goddamned Garfield window-hangers and lacerated his snout, only narrowly missing his eyeball. The provocation? We have no clue, as the dog generally leaves the cats alone and will not attack even if provoked. Obviously. She scratched the crap out of him and all he did was yelp and hide, leaving her no recourse but to attach herself to his helpless ass like a dyslexic facehugger. Since they are both yellow and stripy, it looked like some kind of depraved mating ritual.

Oh, sure. Laugh. I'm scarred for life here.

I cannot pass a single hour without screaming deathmatches disrupting my train of thought. Cats come rolling through the room like hairy, spitting tumbleweeds. The doppler effect of their high-decibel shrieking makes them sound like some bizarre futuristic spaceship from a twisted Jetson's alternate reality that uses human infants for batteries.

When I scream at them to stop they split apart and then one or both will tear off in a different direction completely, most often taking a detour to run over my naked, unprotected foot, thus drawing blood. There they hunch and cower under any available furniture only to ricochet out, pinball-like, when yet another conflict sends yet another another animal rocketing into the room. At this point, one or both will either deposit some form of bodily effluvia in a highly inaccessible spot, or knock over the garbage in an attempt to eat something potentially lethal such as tinfoil, snake poop, and apple cores. During these brave excursions, the cats inevitably encounter one another again, and history sighs and repeats itself.


Item Three: The trailer for the Brothers Grimm movie looks very cool. Yes, I said I hate trailers, and I do, but sometimes they serve a purpose I neglected to mention in my rant. They serve to convince Sargon to take me to see a movie. This one might be in the bag, folks. Heath Ledger, Monica Belluci. Something for each of us.


Item Four: Unintentional humor is writing several pages of bondage porn, only to look down and realize that you are wearing a Punisher tee shirt.


My drugs just kicked in, and I'm feeling like sleeping. Finally. I think that's all for tonight.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I will spare you the doings of the past few days, all of which would either involve copious amounts of carpet cleaning, weed control, and TMI (not related), and simply cut to the chase.


Item One: I have a cold of some kind.

This is utterly stupid, as it's topping one hundred degrees outside with fair regularity. For you people who don't measure temperatures in American, one hundred degrees is about the temperature at which Naamah stops functioning. Coincidentally, it is also the internal temperature at which I appear to be running. Aren't fevers fun?

On the bright side, I've always been one of those lucky bitches who gets really cool fever dreams, and when I have a fever I write extremely well, so it's not all bad news.


Item Two: I am going to murder my cats.

Fish and Mathurin don't give a shit about each other, or any of the other cats. They are not the source of the problem. It's the other two. You know. The two I've had longest and who should, by rights, know better than to fuck with Mommy when Mommy does not feel well.

Tazendra has taken it upon herself to hiss and moan every time she sees any of the other three, and Sif has gone feral, and will attack any of the others who come within ten feet of her. Yesterday she attacked the dog.

Let me make this clear. The dog is, by my math, seven and a half times her size. And yet she latched onto his snout like one of those goddamned Garfield window-hangers and lacerated his snout, only narrowly missing his eyeball. The provocation? We have no clue, as the dog generally leaves the cats alone and will not attack even if provoked. Obviously. She scratched the crap out of him and all he did was yelp and hide, leaving her no recourse but to attach herself to his helpless ass like a dyslexic facehugger. Since they are both yellow and stripy, it looked like some kind of depraved mating ritual.

Oh, sure. Laugh. I'm scarred for life here.

I cannot pass a single hour without screaming deathmatches disrupting my train of thought. Cats come rolling through the room like hairy, spitting tumbleweeds. The doppler effect of their high-decibel shrieking makes them sound like some bizarre futuristic spaceship from a twisted Jetson's alternate reality that uses human infants for batteries.

When I scream at them to stop they split apart and then one or both will tear off in a different direction completely, most often taking a detour to run over my naked, unprotected foot, thus drawing blood. There they hunch and cower under any available furniture only to ricochet out, pinball-like, when yet another conflict sends yet another another animal rocketing into the room. At this point, one or both will either deposit some form of bodily effluvia in a highly inaccessible spot, or knock over the garbage in an attempt to eat something potentially lethal such as tinfoil, snake poop, and apple cores. During these brave excursions, the cats inevitably encounter one another again, and history sighs and repeats itself.


Item Three: The trailer for the Brothers Grimm movie looks very cool. Yes, I said I hate trailers, and I do, but sometimes they serve a purpose I neglected to mention in my rant. They serve to convince Sargon to take me to see a movie. This one might be in the bag, folks. Heath Ledger, Monica Belluci. Something for each of us.


Item Four: Unintentional humor is writing several pages of bondage porn, only to look down and realize that you are wearing a Punisher tee shirt.


My drugs just kicked in, and I'm feeling like sleeping. Finally. I think that's all for tonight.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (The Mocus)
Now.

Let me tell you about Mathurin.

I got him on a trip to Georgia when I was just barely fourteen. The friend I'd gone to see met me in the Burger King, and produced a squirming, fuzzy bundle from beneath her striped shirt.

She knew I loved cats, see, and knew I loved black cats even better.

Let me tell you, I have seen some ugly kittens. Read on for tales of The Eater Of Heads. )

Anway, when I say that we have a new cat, that is the cat I mean. And, boy, do the other cats resent it. A couple of days after we brought him in, the Horror of the situation had set in. I awoke to pitiful sobbing from the three cat wenches, who are not allowed into the bedroom while I am trying to sleep. I opened the door, only to have them flood across me in a hairy tide. All three of them, Fish, Tazendra, and Sif, sharing the bed. History was made that morning, as they all lay within arm's reach of me, and claw's reach of each other.

Every time the wind blew or molecules shifted outside the room, one or more pairs of fuzzy ears would turn, yellow eyes would rake the hallway, searching for some sign of He Who Shall Not Be Named. They hate him. Oh my God, they hate him.

I got up to go to the bathroom. I'm in there, doing my thing, and I hear a pitiful ". . . miu . . ." from outside the curtain. Brushing it aside, I see all three cats sitting in a line, staring fixedly into the bathroom, just waiting for me to come out. They're terrified. They can't be alone with him, or he will kill them and lick out their brains.

All that day and the next they followed me around like sad little ghosts. I was not cat-free for more than twenty minutes all day. They just took turns being pathetic.

Now they've adjusted to the horror enough to have screaming catfights at the tops of their lungs. And while the other three have not an eighth of a Siamese among them, Mathurin is easily a quarter because he is one of the loudest cats I have ever had. They're also feeling spry enough to break their litter training in new and acrobatic places, such as behind the entertainment center, where we have to resort to tool use, like apes fishing about in a termite mound, to retrieve the mess, because the cabinet itself weighs ten thousand pounds and is directly connected to the gravitational field of the earth, and therefore cannot be shifted so much as an inch.

Matt's doing better. He's very old, and he's a little wobbly on his feet. I don't know if that's age, or if he's not been eating enough. It's hard to get him to eat, even when I stay and guard him from the other cats. He has fleas, and he's really thin. I don't know how much longer I'll have with him.

He's a good cat. A really good cat. And I owe props to my sister. I had no idea, but my parents were just going to have him put down without telling me. She was the one who insisted they tell me. So I really had no right to say anything mean about her. She actually saved his hairy, black life a little bit longer.

I'll get pictures when he comes out enough to get a good one. Black cats are very hard to photograph, because they suck up all available light.

*yawn*

I think that's all the babbling I have in me for now.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (The Mocus)
Now.

Let me tell you about Mathurin.

I got him on a trip to Georgia when I was just barely fourteen. The friend I'd gone to see met me in the Burger King, and produced a squirming, fuzzy bundle from beneath her striped shirt.

She knew I loved cats, see, and knew I loved black cats even better.

Let me tell you, I have seen some ugly kittens. Read on for tales of The Eater Of Heads. )

Anway, when I say that we have a new cat, that is the cat I mean. And, boy, do the other cats resent it. A couple of days after we brought him in, the Horror of the situation had set in. I awoke to pitiful sobbing from the three cat wenches, who are not allowed into the bedroom while I am trying to sleep. I opened the door, only to have them flood across me in a hairy tide. All three of them, Fish, Tazendra, and Sif, sharing the bed. History was made that morning, as they all lay within arm's reach of me, and claw's reach of each other.

Every time the wind blew or molecules shifted outside the room, one or more pairs of fuzzy ears would turn, yellow eyes would rake the hallway, searching for some sign of He Who Shall Not Be Named. They hate him. Oh my God, they hate him.

I got up to go to the bathroom. I'm in there, doing my thing, and I hear a pitiful ". . . miu . . ." from outside the curtain. Brushing it aside, I see all three cats sitting in a line, staring fixedly into the bathroom, just waiting for me to come out. They're terrified. They can't be alone with him, or he will kill them and lick out their brains.

All that day and the next they followed me around like sad little ghosts. I was not cat-free for more than twenty minutes all day. They just took turns being pathetic.

Now they've adjusted to the horror enough to have screaming catfights at the tops of their lungs. And while the other three have not an eighth of a Siamese among them, Mathurin is easily a quarter because he is one of the loudest cats I have ever had. They're also feeling spry enough to break their litter training in new and acrobatic places, such as behind the entertainment center, where we have to resort to tool use, like apes fishing about in a termite mound, to retrieve the mess, because the cabinet itself weighs ten thousand pounds and is directly connected to the gravitational field of the earth, and therefore cannot be shifted so much as an inch.

Matt's doing better. He's very old, and he's a little wobbly on his feet. I don't know if that's age, or if he's not been eating enough. It's hard to get him to eat, even when I stay and guard him from the other cats. He has fleas, and he's really thin. I don't know how much longer I'll have with him.

He's a good cat. A really good cat. And I owe props to my sister. I had no idea, but my parents were just going to have him put down without telling me. She was the one who insisted they tell me. So I really had no right to say anything mean about her. She actually saved his hairy, black life a little bit longer.

I'll get pictures when he comes out enough to get a good one. Black cats are very hard to photograph, because they suck up all available light.

*yawn*

I think that's all the babbling I have in me for now.

Profile

naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
naamah_darling

September 2017

S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
101112 13141516
17181920 21 2223
24252627282930

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 25th, 2017 06:17 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios