This will likely be my last post. I turn forty, I begin a different blog elsewhere. I haven't persevered with the perverse, and even my recent unfinished writings have a different personality stamp. They haven't matured, necessarily. They just don't feel right here.
A lot has happened. We're expecting a baby in November. That would be jumping to the exciting news...simply saying there is a 'we' is cause for joy. I've been head over heels for this gal for two years, and I confess I'm a little stunned that it hasn't topped out yet. I feel stronger and stronger about this relationship when I stop a moment and check myself.
Aside from happiness, there have been other distractions. I'm more likely to be at the gym than writing. Of course there's the nesting for the coming baby - I'm always moving crap from here to there, then back or elsewhere - creating space for little Ezri (we already have a name for her) has made day to day life a Jenga torture. Christina is barely moved in...she's still in the process of going through boxes and reckoning what makes the grade in the new life.
And there is Starry. Camille isn't as accommodating as I am, and the two cats are not getting along at all! Starry is a boy and he's very territorial. Camille is Camille: princess and reluctant center of attention. So much has been going on all at once, I worry about her. Moving in was a step up for Starry, but she just hangs in the computer room all day to avoid confronting him. Also, I notice both cats eat more and more; I think when there's competition or cause for scarcity, they eat each meal like its their last.
That sums it up: I had to stop writing to attend to my duties as Mayor of Catshittown. Perhaps one day I'll retire and write my memoirs, though thinking about what I'll have to write about invokes the smell of ammonia.
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