Click Goes the Phone

Six months prior, intoxicated with a fresh wave of enthusiastic confidence, with nearly an air of non-chalance, I pledged I'd pursue the goal we all took upon ourselves. Not so cocky as to deem it a probability, I saw it a very real possibility, and a prize to keep me focused. The months passed, my confidence eroded, and I lost sight of my objective, felt shame in having ever professed I'd pursue it.

Now, much to my shock, my prior objective has been met, despite applying little effort and zero hope. In the meantime my peers had remained steadfast in their paths, yet most fell short. It really just isn't fair.

Time to chase it down like I believe I deserve it. Because I do.

Coming to a Close...

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes."
- Carl Gustav Jung

Blink of an eye, the end nears and the beginning approaches.

Down is the New Up

Initially distracted by the horror awaiting me in the kitchen, I failed to notice the true evil that was taking place at that very moment. I’d returned home from an arduous day of classes, intending to collapse on the couch, cold beer in hand. En route to the couch, I tried to pretend I was oblivious to the sea of garbage spread over the kitchen floor, tried to have it remain in my peripheral vision, out of my direct line of sight. Helplessly, I found my head turn toward the atrocity, thus forcing me to acknowledge both the calamity and my responsibility for it. I trudged toward the kitchen, taking great care to step over the sprawled-out culprit responsible for the mess: Sparrow, my 9 month-old cat. She tends to embark on Raccoony type expeditions, frequently pillaging our covered garbage can for anything she deems edible, which is pretty much anything we would deem garbage.

I began gathering up the mess, mumbling to myself corporal punishments I would never actually inflict upon my beloved Sparrow, but desperately needed to envision so as not to resent her forever. While I slaved away, cleaning up her mess, Sparrow remained on the floor in the spot I’d stepped over her, meowing relentlessly. I paid her no mind. The meowing persisted. Gradually, it became a yowl, and a somewhat desperate one at that. I could ignore her no longer. She lay curled on the floor, sporadically kicking her feet out. I stepped closer. The stench hit me. Nervously, I edged even closer to have my fears confirmed. There’s no mistaking the scent of cat feces.

Nearly the entire lower half of Sparrow’s body was caked in damp excrement. I stutter-stepped backward, contemplating fleeing the scene at the very least, and perhaps even skipping town. Sparrow flopped over onto her feet and jumped up off the hardwood floor onto the step of our second storey stairwell. Our carpeted stairwell. At this point I’d pretty much given up on life, as she rubbed her body on the bottom step, depositing stains. Apparently that step wasn’t sufficient to sate her, for she leapt up to the next step, repeating the ritual. Quite understandably, I screamed. This did nothing to alert her and she rolled onto her back, yowling loudly, and prominently displaying what may possibly be the most unholy vision I’ve ever fallen victim to. It became apparent my attempts to will myself into a coma were going nowhere, so I finally leaped into action. Gagging, I scooped Sparrow off her sixth freshly tainted step and sprinted for the bathroom, desperately trying to ignore her body pressed against mine.

Once in the bathroom, she sat miserably on the floor, grumbling, twisting her body against the cold tiles, wiping off whatever she could. Once again she rolled over on her back. There was no denying that...it wasn’t all out. There was some sort of blockage (I could tell you what it was if you really must know) and progress was being halted so she panicked and abandoned the whole notion of the litter box and took the show to the hardwood floor. That’s when I fatefully entered the scene. Forcing back yet another gag, I reached for a long strip of toilet paper, wrapping it around my most dexterous finger. I will spare you the more gruesome details, I promise. Just know that it was at least twice as awful as you imagine and involved 730% more probing than I am comfortable with. Speaking on Sparrow’s behalf, I’d gamble a guess at a slightly higher percentage.

I then gently wrestled a displeased Sparrow into the bathtub, blocking all escape routes. She put up a fight most ardent the moment the faucet was turned on. I deftly avoided her tenacious claws, fearing any and all blood-borne infections from fecal matter. At the battle’s height, she managed a feat of epic strength and tore up a segment of the metal basing, forcing me to release her if I wished to prevent the heavy shower doors from collapsing onto the both of us. She nimbly darted out of the tub, ferociously shaking torrents of shit water from her coat. All over. Yes, including me. I considered crying and/or a temper tantrum, but instead resumed the battle, dragging her back to the tub. After a few minutes of soothing voice work and comforting petting, she allowed me to wash her entire body. The fact that she found the soap I was using to be tasty may have also factored into her compliance, for she hungrily lapped away at it. I pray that has no negative effects on her digestive tract because I can’t go a round two for at least another year.

Drenched, but completely clean, Sparrow lovingly followed behind me for the next half hour as I scoured the bathroom, scrubbed the carpet and hardwood clean, and finished cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. I then spent a solid hour taking a shower of my own, after which Sparrow curled up on my lap for a nap. She was perhaps a little mopey, but I like to think mostly grateful. All the carnage was efficiently dealt with before my roomies returned home- something I hope they are appropriately thankful for.

I submit this account into evidence that I will obviously someday be a fantastic mother, thankyouverymuch.