A Place above the clouds

I just yelled at my cat. For someone who thought she’d already hit rock bottom, that was a new low.

My makeup disgusts me. I hate the way it alienates my face. When I wear it I stringently avoid all tactile encounters; I don’t want the makeup to contaminate anything else.

The metro disgusts me. The train makes me feel like a rat being shuttled through a sewer; the grime permeating the buses depreciates my faith in humanity every time I board them. The slight chill at the bus stops seem to rob me of my limited energy, and the mere thought of my hour-long commutes makes me long for the oblivion of sleep.

There’s an unidentifiable hair on my keyboard; that disgusts me too. I’m even eschewing the mouse and the chair: they radiate heat from my brother’s prolonged computer use. Despite the nippy temperature, the warmth is quite unpleasant. It conjures repulsive images of breeding bacterium and sticky, smelly sweat.

But the most disgusting thing is me. Today, I slept twelve hours straight, broke my vow to hit the gym, arrived late to my singing lessons, ate more marshmallow peeps than I care to admit (in addition to a half a dozen girl scout cookies) and generally wasted my life, just like I did yesterday, and the day before that, and every other day of the past few months.

So what do I do to remedy my worthlessness? Augment it, of course.

I came home today, anxious, bemused, exhausted , and on the brink of tears for no discernible reason, only to be confronted by my cat. As usual, he was meowing at his food bowl, notwithstanding the bounty of kibble it contained. Typically I just stand there and meow back until he settles down and starts chowin’, but some dormant demon chose that moment vivify.

“What?!,” I screamed, dumping the kibble on the floor. “What do you want?! You have food, look, right there, look! I’m sorry baby, but I have nothing else to give you!” And I fled to my room, to the safety of my quilts and pillows. But before long, I heard a familiar rustling emanating from the myriad magazines that litter my bedroom. Scratching at them is my cat’s way of announcing his displeasure; he knows this irks me and wins him instant attention/food/aid/etc, anything to make him stop. “What?!,” I cried expelling my quilts to the floor. “What do you want?! I’m never getting another cat! Never getting another cat! Go away! There’s no one here! I’m not here! Gone!” With that I furiously burrowed under my blankets. He just glared at me, before lithely leaping onto my futon and nuzzling my hand, purring. Far from evoking my maternal instincts, this gesture drove me over the edge. I stroked his cheeks, sobbing, “I’m sorry kitty. I’ve let you down. I’ve made you so dependent on me, and now I can’t sustain you. Maybe I should have set you free, let you run feral. Then you could have tended to your own needs, instead of relying on a miserable human. Nature would have provided for you,  you would have been happy and free, I’m sorry. I’m so busy, kitty, I’m tired. I’m sorry.”

Monologue concluded, I sprung from my bed, dislodging my poor cat, and locked myself in the bathroom to compose myself. My eyeliner had migrated down my face and onto my collar, joining a tea stain I earned earlier today (my just reward for violating metro’s No Beverage policy.) I felt hot and lightheaded. But I postponed the cold, cleansing shower I craved, because kitty was scratching at the bathroom door. He wanted me to pet him.