No Cat Lady

I refuse to be the cat lady. And I do not mean the lady with 14 cats, and a bird. I mean, I do not want to be the lady that has a blog about cats. I doubt it would develop from an obsession, lack of other interests, or needing something to say. I have only allowed one person to read my prior posts (the whopping 3?), so I do not think I need something to share with others. I am in constant conquest, so cats could not sustain my ravenous mind. And lets face it, cats are not obsession worthy. I do think if I am not cautious, however, my blogs could become monotonous, dry, and overly abstract or explicit. I am sure with posting this, I am simply proving myself correct, unfortunately. But at 228 AM, I have little expectation of me. This used to be the only time in a day I could decipher some of what I think. Lately, with the lack of writing, reading, expressing, and earlier sleep cycle, at 228 AM my deciphering comes down to "blah." If I could picture my mind right now, I would describe it as a mixture of playdo, ribbon, and porridge. In some areas, my brain is firm but malleable, in a twisted up fashion, along the paths of ribbons. In others, formless, nearly mushy. Some time in the hopefully near future, I shall try to write down the paths of these ribbons, the somewhat comprehensible neurotransmitter firing sequences, within the playdo and porridge. Complete thoughts, punctuation, and clarity should not be anticipated. In an utter change of direction, I am going to sleep now (now being in about 3-5 minutes). However, I thought I would leave you with an off topic blurb I scribbled out a few days back. I hope you enjoy it a fraction of how much I did writing it. But if not, eh, ink blots never have the same impact on two different people.

In the belly of the beast. I have been swallowed and now reside with the eroded and juices of others like me. We slosh in the darkness. Hope for redemption is mere noise, now. Acids eat away layers of flesh: denial, desire, anger, gloom, desperation. When your world is soaked and slippery with deceit, what is there to cling to? The only sticky slime bubbles up, encompassing you in a macabre blanket, dissolving what flesh is left. Slime is the beast’s collector, providing the sustenance. I can feel it, his ache to claim my soul, to feed the beast. The acids are inevitable, but slime is escapable when standing tall in the one layer of flesh remaining.