Whenever I get overwhelmed (by my own mind, mind), the universe sends felines. It could be a cat that owns me, or tiny strangers demanding food.
It could be the guard house tom I know, or a molly I meet once, down the street, savvy and sleek.
It could be a domestic tiger, terrible and good.
It really doesn’t matter what manner of company they come to be; the point is that they come to me when my energy spins dishes on the fragile heads of pins.
They come to me so I can remember that the universe has kindness. It has folded it inside me in a freshly-pressed square precisely so that cats (in all their wisdom) can shed all over them.
If you ask me to name something I’m talented at, I’m sure you’d expect me to say that I’m talented at writing. You’d be right – I think I have great talent for writing. But I mostly base that assertion on the fact that people have, over the years, thrown money at me so I would write for them. Because of this, I often ask myself whether or not I really am gifted when it comes to stringing words together – for all I know, I’m just slightly better than other people and have the sheer stupid (in a good way) luck necessary to land a job at a company that REALLY likes the way I write. So maybe this shouldn’t be the thing that I should claim as my special aptitude.
And then it hits me: there’s something else that I seem to be really good at. I’ve done it all my life.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have a fricking blackbelt in the art of panicking.
It’s so obvious! I’m a champion panic-girl! Tell me that there was a change in plans? I panic. Have no plans at all for something really big? I panic. RUN OUT OF THINGS TO READ AND STUFF TO WRITE WITH? GOD FORBID! (I panic). I panic at the drop of a hat. You don’t have to ask me twice. I do it without thinking. I have muscle memory dedicated to panicking. I think I’ve been panicking since I failed to be born naturally. (Doctors had to perform a C-section because I had the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck – in retrospect, the fear of change may have prompted me to do that on purpose. yes, as a FETUS).
That doesn’t mean that I can’t handle my shit. I actually can – part of being good at being agitated is being able to use that kind of thing to move forward as extremely necessary. That said, I’m sure I’ve annoyed tons of loved ones whenever I freak out over whatever.
Oh god. That’s actually depressing, isn’t it?
I’m so sorry everyone ><