Self-soothing

March 27th, 2024, 6:03 PM by Goddess

I oft want to post something, because bleeding the wound, no matter how shallow, always seems to make it heal faster.

Like, do I talk about the fact that every week in the 3:30 time slot, I receive at least one comment that makes me want to toss up a finger or two and hang up. And that today, even after that moment arrived, I can finally say I felt nothing and it didn’t even bother me. Like, oh that’s all you have? It’s like you didn’t even try!

But then I think about the years-at-a-time I’ve shut down this blog. I wouldn’t say my mental health was much improved. But not having to worry about what I wrote to self-soothe was, well, soothing.

Like when the Toon of Goon sent some unhinged email that a post I made (long before the era this email arrived in) was somehow related to that era. And I was like, nope, bitch, try again. That felt GOOD. I didn’t write a public post about the era in question. Shit, I didn’t even write that many PRIVATE ones that could have gone live/viral.

Anyway. I was just reading an essay about how care and support are luxuries that you are only entitled to TEMPORARILY … and that’s only if you’ve earned them under capitalism. That you’re unworthy of care if you are in some way unwell. (And/or, I infer, under-capitalized.)

And before that, I was reading an essay about how writing for oneself is the ultimate act of self-soothing. Like when people thank us for writing a piece, no thanks are needed. Writing it likely kept us from committing some form of self-harm (e.g., smoking, overeating, indulging in some sort of ridiculous behavior we enjoy as a coping mechanism from some trauma).

I think about that a lot. I deprive myself of writing. Let’s face it, I really only have a handful of losers who sit around rooting for my demise and a separate-but-equal number who actively trample on me because they are pure evil. There are plenty MORE people who want to see me shine. If only I’d let myself.

Anyway, the point of the first essay is that, though these are all private things that make us unwell or downright break us, they are actually communal. They were not caused in a vacuum and they should not be shouldered that way. I’m not talking about those who create their drama and exaggerate their mental/health problems to make them everyone else’s problem. I’m talking about all of us carrying around public and private wounds who didn’t self-inflict them. And even if we did, it was something in the collective that caused it and therefore it’s really all of our problems until it is assuaged somewhat.

Like, I miss my Cocoa so much, I can’t stand myself. Yes, it is my grief. It is my pain for … what? Having loved a furry little girl so much that my heart burst with joy when she was mine? How about look around at all the assholes who mistreat animals and, I’ll say it, me. How about everyone who let me the fuck down so much that my best friend on earth was a tiny 6-pound cat who brought me nothing but love and acceptance and loyalty I’ve never enjoyed before because every human I’ve encountered is fully incapable of it? I don’t expect anyone to fix it. Let me just be sad without making it worse. As it’s been said, so many people have nothing yet can’t even enjoy the nothing they have in peace. If you can’t help, just don’t plunge the knife in any further. And if you can’t in fact help, why the fuck not?



3/13

March 17th, 2024, 3:54 PM by Goddess

A week late, yes, but I was on time on the day.

A friend of mine left the world on that date last year. I didn’t find out till a little later.

This year I sent all the condolences early in the day. And I had a gift that arrived on the 11th to the youngest person with a broken heart. So she could have something to smile about.

The one who broke the news to me wanted me to tell old friends. One in particular. He keeps asking me if I did.

Look. This friend was so into abusive boyfriends and complaining to me about them and not, say, changing her situation that I quit returning her calls.

I heard from my recently passed friend that the friend had gotten married. To a guy with the first name of her first boyfriend. A guy who happened to smile at me after they broke up in a way that made her lose her religion. You know, the whole if I can’t have him, neither can you thing.

In any event, I do know she changed her name and had a couple kids with the second guy by that name. Maybe she did that full circle from good guy to abusive fuckers to good guy. Let’s hope.

I did fuck up a bit and let the cat out of the bag with a friend of yesteryear. Whom I told hey, she was private and I haven’t told anyone, but she’s gone and that’s why she isn’t answering your message.

Well.

I got texts from two friends like whaaaat we just heard.

I was terrified for a minute. But they were so nice. They loved her and knew I had to be hurting.

Like, I forget that people in this world are good. And that they loved someone I loved, even better.

It sucks that my friend is gone. But I kind of got this interesting little extended network that I didn’t really have before.

The gift I gave involved a ladybug. The gift I wanted to give involved a camera.

But we both knew this person at different phases of their life and made different associations. So much as I wanted to buy MY preferred present, I gifted the other.

That’s the part that’s hardest to swallow. That this person wanted so badly to know more about my friend’s past. And she truly thought she’d never get it.

But then one day I messaged out of the blue, and she said I was just telling my husband that I didn’t know any of her friends to even ask questions of. And here you come, telling me all these great stories and keeping her memory alive for me.

Seems like we needed each other and would have never known it. So, gotta say I am SO glad for social media and remembering this then-2-year-old’s name all this time so I could look her up and strike up this beautiful little relationship.

I would never say things happen for a reason. But I will say that you can create good. And, if you’re lucky, you can find enough motivation to get you to the next day, and the next, and so on.



Still just a cat in a cage

March 17th, 2024, 8:34 AM by Goddess

No secret that we get harassed for feeding community cats here. Which … plenty of county statues support our efforts.

They are fixed. They were taken from/released to this land. There is precedent for feeding them.

YET.

A batch of trumpers have been harassing the feeders. So we go in the dark.

And now, these trumpers have collectively formed a thought and dumped cat food out in giant piles, photographed it, and submitted complaints that WE are doing it.

Like, yeah I might leave some extra, but I am not putting piles into guest parking spots, you dolts. Jesus. Stupid as your fucking leader. (HOA or twice-impeached, 91-time-criminally-indicted turd. Both apply.)

Also when we put out food and then these human animals stomp out and scare the kiddos away … of course the food gets left. That’s when they take photos, to “prove” we are leaving excess food. Bitch, you stomped on my kids’ dinners. You can eat ME.

And we get hell to pay if we dare leave a tiny dish of water out overnight after letting these kids swelter all day.

Seriously, I leave a dish out at 8 p.m. and pick it up at 6 a.m. HELL TO PAY, I tell you.

Well. It’s gotten worse.

Carl Z. and his loser daughter Lauren (the one who choked an elderly lady and tried to punch me) were seen in the bushes the other night. I had left water at 5 as I was on my way to the Kravis.

After it got dark, a cage appeared and these two nuts were either the ones who put it there, or were putting food in it. On parchment paper. Quaint.

Well. Our gray boy has been gone ever since. I last saw him the morning before I went to the Kravis.

And all I will say is the cage is now gone too.

And the nasty bitch MJ whose twin is the fuckface Frank who harassed me for two years about wearing a mask is now asking where HER cage went to.

Try the intracoastal, is all I will say about that.

I have been in absolute anxiety-ridden meltdown mode ever since that cage, well, disappeared. Like, what did those fuckers manage to do while I wasn’t around for a few hours? Where is my boy?

I have been on the phone with Animal Control ever since Lauren tried to punch me out.

I have talked to every TNR group I can find. Fuckin Danika keeps rejecting my membership in one of them because I didn’t enjoy having her barfy poodles in my house, what, 15 years ago? I told one of the local rescues about her petty ass.

Anyway, my co-feeder and the one who really manages the community and gets flea and worm meds onto these babies has gone to the police and another local rescue group. Between the two of us, we have all the paperwork and legalities on our side.

But then this fuckin place is still threatening to put liens against our units. And in my Overnight Legal Scholar Era, I’ve learned they CAN do it because the property manager (who is new and a fucking idiot) has the final say.

Anyway, it’s war down here on the Intracoastal.

I was telling my friend, I go out in my jammies. Hair undone. No phone. And I get cameras in my face.

So now I get dressed. Go to the bathroom. Bring my phone. Bring a knife. Bring water and a bowl and treats and whatever fucking else I feel like bringing.

My friend said the same thing. Including some chewing gum in case she gets yelled at again and needs a moment to think. (She’s so nice — I will eviscerate them verbally, but she’s the peacemaker.)

Basically like I say, I have to dress for prison. In something I will enjoy wearing for a few days. Though my ex used to tell me that I can’t afford the bail. (And he knew about my bail money fund that I keep around for feeding times and work events.)

Not only am I sick over what they will do to the rest of my tiny, docile cats. But I also fret about did I leave too much food? Like, if my boy does come back I always have extra for him. He’s such a hungry boy. He would always finish any leftovers.

This is all literally killing me. I need for those assholes to be the one to get their “Carl-ma.” Including the bitch with the Genesis and her little Spanish bitch-boy with her old Genesis she gave him.

Can’t wait for MJ to go back to Connecticut or hell or wherever she’s from. But I can’t get rid of these other assholes for the summer. And they all only moved here in like 2022.

God I miss the days before they existed. Our BFF kiddos Fancy and Whiskers (they greet/love on each other before they will eat) were here since at least 2015 when the units next door were built. Amelia’s been here at least 11 years since she was pregnant and my friend adopted out her litter and got her fixed. Poppins, at least 8 years. Smalls and Meatball have been here at least a year. Again, most got here before Lurch and Left-Hook Lurch and those Genesis goons.

I want to move, but I know there will be assholes wherever I go too. But, I am so ready for a different set of assholes.



Not the Stalker

March 3rd, 2024, 3:29 PM by Goddess

We were set to see “Jagged Little Pill” last week. But my fancy friend got invited to speak at a Vegas conference, so we punted the tickets to Sunday.

And thank goodness. My stalker posted that they went to the Thursday show. And posted a photo from what appeared to be a couple seats over from our regular spot.

I’d say weirdo, but the fact that their tasteless ass didn’t enjoy the show was weirder still. And if the Loge isn’t high-falutin’ enough for you, well. Enjoy paying $10 more to be the exact same distance from the stage. Freak.

Well the really weird part was them insulting me down for going. But THEY went. And sat in OUR section. So, ooooookkay then.

Then this dipshit decided to announce that they got tickets to the next show and made it a point to say it wasn’t on the same day someone else goes.

I would assume that’s me. But she called them stalker.

My theater-going friend read that shit and texted me, um, the one who got OUR (unknowingly to them, forfeited) tickets on OUR night does not know what the word stalker means.

“I don’t want to be the glue that holds your pieces together
I don’t want to be your idol
See this pedestal is high and I’m afraid of heights
I don’t want to be lived through
A vicarious occasion
Please open the window.”
— Alanis Morrissette, “Not the Doctor”

Alanis has a song, “Not the Doctor.” I’m going to go ahead and say thank you for proving that I’m not the stalker, no matter how you try to convince #taxtwitter that you are a saint.



My lil Cocoa-nut came back, trois

February 11th, 2024, 6:59 AM by Goddess

If spirits come to me in my dreams, I don’t always remember that they’ve passed and that this visitation is a gift.

Like, I usually wake up and I’m like, I should have told xx that I love them or asked them that question.

Anyway, I was in another of my psychedelic new-moon dreams a couple hours ago. Cocoa walked in. And I KNEW this was a BIG DEAL!

Anytime Cocoa entered a room, Mom and I would say, “Everyone knows it’s Cocoa!” Yes, we thought of Slinky, as she would slink in and wait patiently for me to get my shit together. (She literally died waiting for that. Anyway.)

When I saw her in the dream, I said, “Everyone knows it’s Cocoa!”

And she smiled in her Cocoa big-smile way.

I don’t really have a comparable pic to the way she looked in the dream, as a lot of my pics were from four years ago when I nabbed her. But she’s gotten tinier and prettier since thing. The results of illness (size) and being with a Momma who loved her very much (she bloomed) and fed her good foodz.

My baby is the best baby.

I figure three visitations is probably my limit for now. I mean, not MY limit — she can come back to life and I’d be over the moon. But my professional psychic friend said we’ll try to connect with her sometime in March, to give her a little time to acclimate.

Maybe she’ll be more acclimated than I am, then. I’m right where she left me, as our beloved Taylor Swift sings.



My lil Cocoa-nut came back, deux

February 10th, 2024, 10:12 PM by Goddess

I asked Cocoa to send me a song whenever she is ready or able.

I didn’t know what to ask for. It’s not like the 400 songs I made up to match the 400 names I have for her are breaking past any of Taylor Swift’s 10 albums in the top 10 on Billboard, Spotify and Apple.

Alas, my girl came through tonight in a spectacular way.

“Country Grammar” came on as I pulled into my compound. Mom and I love us some Nelly, so we started singing.

* Shimmy shimmy Cocoa butt *

The moment it was out of my mouth, the tears started. We sang that to her when she still lived under the Target truck.

Mom saw her first Target truck today since we lost our baby. She lost it then too.

I was already in my head so it didn’t affect me as directly.

Oh, who am I kidding. Everything affects me directly when it comes to my girl.

Thank you for “our” song, baby.



My lil Cocoa-nut came back

February 10th, 2024, 3:47 PM by Goddess

After Cocoa passed, I cleaned her litter box and put it away.

I gave her medicine to a Baltimore kitty.

I gave her little plastic lid that she liked to sleep in to Bella. Who loves it.

And I let Magic have the pillowcase that was the last thing she physically touched.

He was a dick to her, but he won’t let me wash this …

My baby didn’t have much else, other than my whole heart.

She still has two tiny Christmas trees. She didn’t want to come out of my room in the end. So I had a little pink tree and a little green one, to keep her company while I worked.

The lights burned out on both the day she left. The. Day. She. Left.

Anyway, that litter box. I had swept up and cleaned the floor, since she missed it once or twice in her final days. She always got to it. Just couldn’t get her tiny legs up into it anymore.

Cocoa was gone about two days, maybe three, when one of her brown-and-white claws appeared where her box used to be.

Now, I had shaved some of her fur off. Stole one of her white whiskers with the brown roots. Wished I had kept a discarded claw, but I always got rid of those so Mom wouldn’t step on them and get hurt.

How in the cinnamon toast fuck did Cocoa manage to FIND a rogue claw, let alone leave it for her Momma to see?

The others saying bye to their sissy …

God I hope she is the reason they are nuts. I told Cocoa to give it to them like they did to her. They worship that tiny box. As they should.



Rage stage

February 10th, 2024, 3:29 PM by Goddess

There was a pack of two catnip strawberry toys at Five Below for Valentine’s Day. Every time I looked at them, I thought, nah, I have three kiddos.

I’d found three Christmas bulb toys in a pack. And three Hocus Pocus broom toys before that. And three Peeps. You get the idea.

Eggy. We had bacon and avocado toast too.

Today I was in 5B and there was one pack of twin strawberries left.

I bought them. And cried all the way to the register, remembering that I don’t have my gray baby to go home to anymore.

I always tried to bring something home for her. Ribs. Chicken. A cheeseburger. Which, McDonald’s fucked up Cokie’s last cheeseburger. I said plain and it was covered in ketchup. Just like Olive Garden fucked up Kadie’s last fettuccine Alfredo. I am not even sure what they gave me, but I had to go back. I wasted that time. I didn’t waste that time for Cocoa. Let fuckups be fuckups.

My northern family is in town tonight. I have been looking so forward to seeing them for months. I just canceled. They don’t need the sad girl there to ruin their good time.

Of course, that leaves me to wonder if I might not see all (or any) of them again. Like, should I have sucked it up because, god, they are my long-ago-workplace family?

Got into a rip-roaring fight with Carl from the next building. He figured out that I’m the 6 a.m. community cat feeder. He is the reason I am no longer the 6 p.m. feeder. And why that gal goes later if she sees Lurch out patrolling the lot.

Get him, Cocoa.

Carl is very mad that Meatball sleeps in his bushes. And that Meatball pooped in the bushes and buried it in the sand. I said cry me a fucking river. He said he can’t keep his windows open. I said I can’t either because everyone here is a fucking chainsmoker. He said I am very nasty for not sympathizing with him. I said you are nasty for taking photos of my crotch eery time you see me (as that’s how he approached — with his camera on me).

We yelled at each other for a good 15 minutes. The cats, who had been eating, scattered. Then people started walking their ugly fucking dogs. So I scooped up all the wet food with my hands and threw it away at home. I told him those cats hate you and that’s why they must be near you. He said you know NOTHING about animals. I said I know you’re trash and so is your daughter. He said well I am not my daughter. Like WTF kind of answer is that?

He’s just a small, miserable wuss of a man. And I sincerely don’t understand why my baby had to die but Carl and every piece of shit loser asshole who has to stalk and harass me online and off is still alive. I mean, what a goddamned waste. No one will miss any of them a quarter as much as I miss my little girl. Not even an eighth, I’d bet.

Anyway it’s no fun coming home without immediately seeing Cokie behind the door. Without scooping her up and her purring louder than the pipes rattle when I wash dishes because the dishwasher doesn’t work and the walls are literally made of paper. Without cutting up a cheeseburger into a thousand little pieces because she had no toofs, and watching her gobble it like I gave her the greatest gift the land could offer.

So, no, Carl, I genuinely do not give a fuck about your stupid windows or you being mildly inconvenienced, for that matter.

Oh and he did harass the night shift, too. We’re both blonde and the same height, so he yelled at her too and said something odd to me about having this discussion with me before. Like, so your MO is basically just harassing women in the dark and taking photos of them squatting. AND you drive a child predator van with Ohio plates. Real fucking prize, there.

He must hate that we all think he’s a joke. But really, he hasn’t given us reason not to. We all sent him running and crying to his blind daddy. Who he should be spending time with, not us, right?

If only I could trade my baby’s life for Carl’s. For just about anyone’s, really.

The anger stage is real and it’s my favorite so far.



Cocoa (1/26/20-1/26/24)

February 4th, 2024, 1:10 PM by Goddess

I had put in a Target order for coffee. But the only store that had any left (Dunkin, pumpkin) in January was the Greenacres store.

So, Momma and I took the ride. Armed with birdseed, because the property has a little reservoir where dozens gather.

After we fed ducks, we drove behind the store to see if there were any others who could use a beakful.

There was a gorgeous gray kitty lounging under a Target truck. I didn’t see her but Momma did. Momma said pull over and she sent me into the store for food.

I came out with Kitten Chow and a couple cans. Cocoa knew I was a friend and let me come into her space.

She gobbled everything I had to offer. I asked her if she wanted to come home with me, but she settled back into her spot.

First photo:

I promised to come feed her again. And we did … every night till April 4, 2020, when I finally succeeded in catnapping her.

Gotcha day:

We attracted at least a dozen more kiddos. And birdos who eat cat food. We came back every day for a year before some illiterate Target employee got us escorted off the premises.

Legend had it that a lady in the trailer park next door had taken on 16 cats but was ordered to stop either housing or feeding them. A man with broken English told me this, so thats all I got of Cocoa’s origin story.

Cocoa always got the first food I doled out. And when we had rotisserie chicken, mom’s job to distribute, she always gave Cocoa the most. Cokie was her little “Nibble Nibble Munchkin.”

Then Cocoa would stroll with me around the parking lot. She would sample what I gave other kitties, since they all liked different flavors and brands and I tried to accommodate who liked what.

I made it a point to never post about Cocoa on social media. I was nervous that someone crazy in that neighborhood would try to harm her. So I posted about the rest and kept my little treasure to myself.

First “us-ie”:

After I finally got my girl, I finally stopped sobbing all the way home without her.

I wasn’t in the market for a new cat. But I literally died every night when the feeding time, evening stroll and saying-bye ritual had concluded.

I enjoyed new rituals that involved baby blankets and her grooming me to sleep at night.

My little Cubbie. She didn’t even look real once she lost the stress from being outside in the heat amid the trucks and the drunks of Greenacres.

Baby bear cub:

Alas, I loved this baby so much that I never missed an opportunity to hug and kiss her.

She loved me back from day one. She purred louder than any Mustang I’ve ever driven when I would say her name or touch her.

I took her to the vet four days after I nabbed her. Can’t tell you how many thousands we would go on to spend on vet bills, or tens of thousands on specialty foods and meds. And chickies, ribbies, turkeys, cheeseburgers, etc. That child loved spices!

Moar please:

I have always worried about this child but she has always bounced back from some really bad days.

And she was an excellent road trip partner:

But last Wednesday the 24th, she refused chickie and the dark meat turkey I specially ordered for her from Sprouts. Which is as close to a red flag as you can get with her.

On Thursday, she refused the Lil Soups and Delectables and even the watery Weruva and Tiki Cat baby mousse that she had just devoured two days earlier.

So I made my final work call (to offer someone a job) at 1 and called off for the next day. I took Cocoa out to the balcony and rejoiced that she would drink water and sleep.

She never minded my presence or my Mardi Gras toes:

She had a hard 32 hours.

Every time I picked her up to hug her, she immediately nuzzled and loved on me, like always.

We spent most of Friday in the living room. She only showed energy when I hugged her.

It was like she saw death coming and fought like hell to get back to the floor, to the little plastic lid she loved to sleep in on my bed. Her claws never retracted. So she hated fabrics. She preferred the cold marble floor and Costco boxes and this lid.

Cokie’s last photo. She left me soon after:

I have a thousand more photos and a million stories to tell about the baby who made me love again. She is the reason I acquired nine others. It all started with her.

She gets to leave a legacy. I ordered her final methimazole refill two weeks ago. When I parted with the $80, something told me she wouldn’t use it. But with weather events, I wanted to have it anyway.

Well.

I asked my FB crew to DM me if they could use it. And I mailed it off to an adorable tortoise cat — same colors as Cokie — who lives in Baltimore.

I also sent foodz. My lil jabronis haven’t had an appetite since Sissy went away. And it costs too much to toss.

Baltimore kitty got his package last night. And his brother, who also has health problems, loved the food I sent.

So, my baby’s legacy lives on in more than just my broken heart.

On her way out of this world, something told me pick her up. It is your last chance.

She fought, of course. Her little headdy rested on my shoulder for a few moments but whatever came for her, came. And she was mad as hell to leave her momma.

I kept her in my arms and she quickly went limp, her adorable little bummy on my lap.

We sang all of Cocoa’s songs. I didn’t cry or lift her to look at me. I knew, just “love her out.”

I always called her my baby. But I was hers, too.

I wrapped her in her giraffe baby blankets, put her in her box lid, and put her where she used to sleep on my bed next to my head.

We have two aquamation places here. One was as rude as the other, when I called the next day. But the one I picked did a nice job and, one more annoying interaction later, I have my baby back for good.

I only had her four years. But I loved her with all I had. I always always always will.

I cried while she was alive, knowing this day would come. I just wish it hadn’t come so soon.

Even now, I say bye to her when I leave … say good morning, Totes when I wake up (she always came to the bathroom for morning scritches) … and say “night-nite, Totes” first before I say it to Momma, Bella and Magic as I fall asleep.

She will never not be first. My Momma understands. Momma callee

Md

Night-nite, Totes. Your momma loves you to the moon and to Saturn.

You weren’t just my best friend. You were my best four years.



1/17

January 17th, 2024, 7:33 AM by Goddess

It’s been seven and a half years since we lost Sia.

I think about her a lot. Maybe not as frequently as I did. But still more often than I’ll ever let on.

Today makes seven birthdays without her.

Today also marks the first birthday without another friend of mine who passed unexpectedly last year.

I hadn’t bothered to wish her a happy birthday in years. I mean, neither of us did. But we spent a lot of birthdays together over the years. So it’s not like either of us could forget.

I messaged one of her family members today. I should message her ex, too, since he’s the one who broke me the sad news to me last year.

The ex had instructed me to tell our mutual friends. But I thought about it and said nah.

She was so private in life. You cannot even get a Google result for her. Believe me, I’ve tried.

There is no reason to let anyone think she is doing anything but her beloved hobbies and being unintentionally funny.

God, how she made us all laugh.

The irony is not lost on me that this used to be a day of celebration. Now it is a day of reckoning that “we’ll get together soon” now refers to whatever lies beyond the veil.

Happy birthday, ladies. I will never forget it … or you.