Cat Drool


My cat has been Going Through Some Things recently. At least, I assume so–I’m hard-pressed to find alternative explanations for why he has suddenly quit sleeping on a piled quilt at the foot of my bed, and started headbutting me with his drooling mouth instead. I think he is a delightful cat, but this is Not Ideal.

If I roll over to avoid his loving drool, he follows me and starts again. If I roll onto my stomach, he begins nibbling my ears. If I move him off of me, he meows the most plaintive meow I have ever heard. It’s become a little bit like what I imagine owning a very anxious, very small labrador retriever would be like. Needless to say, I haven’t been sleeping very well.

It’s hard to stay mad at the cat, though. After all–as evidenced by the fact that he will occasionally try to eat paint off the walls of my apartment–he’s not 100% on the same page as the world around him. That has to be stressful, particularly if you’re only 12 pounds.

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Nocturnal Wee Beasty


Image courtesy of Myriam M. J. Rondeau. Licensed under CC BY SA 2.0.

I managed to graduate college without ever having pulled an all-nighter. This was accomplished with lists, advanced planning, and a fundamental dislike of being up very late, because I am a Little Bit Boring.

Then, I switched shifts at work from my previous, beloved evening shift to an 8pm-6am gig. It has benefits–I work fewer days a week, and I receive extra money to compensate for being a nocturnal wee beasty–but living an entire life of all-nighters has exposed me to some unexpected situations. Continue reading

Midtown Cat Studio


Image courtesy of the DLC. Licensed under CC BY SA.

It has occurred to me recently that I might benefit from therapy. However, released as I have been from the comforting bosom of student health care, I have no idea about how to seek out a therapist.

I figured I’d start with Yelp.

It turns out that, unfortunately, the same site that I use to find every taco joint in midtown Atlanta is not a particularly appropriate resource for mental health care. All of the results it turned up were for massage therapy and marital counseling.

I did learn that I live next to a massage place, though, so that’s very exciting.

After giving up on that particular failed Yelpisode, I busied myself with my new favorite hobby: listening to this song, on loop, forever. (Occasionally I get bored with it, at which point I break out the best “Seven Nation Army” cover.) Last week, to expand my horizons beyond those two songs, I made a Spotify playlist called “Pretending I Live in an Anthropologie,” intending to fill it mostly with wispy, acoustic pop in foreign languages.

For authenticity, I Googled “Anthropologie music,” which of course turned up a comprehensive list of the music they play in the stores, typed out by a former employee, because Internet.

I am officially at a point in my life where I am okay having my personal soundscape curated by Very Cool 25-year-olds managing retail. Sixteen-year-old me is side eyeing hard through time.

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Viking Bocce


I am back in Atlanta after spending a week in the hills (near where FDR died in the arms of his mistress) with some of the other folks in my scholarship program. Though I’m not totally sure what that particular retreat is supposed to accomplish other than making all of Emory’s merit aid recipients tremendously fat on southern food, I am in no way complaining. There was muscadine ice cream! And viking bocce!

It’s called kubb. No, really. It was insane, as games invented in cultures that don’t have balls are wont to be.

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