Feline and Female

The foster child is mine now. Grumbling. She is my last cat, and I still cannot say it was right, but if I had given her back, Vinnie would have been depressed, and like a mother who cannot stand the guilt of loving the lesser son less, if I had been as realistic as I should have been, this guilt would have probably led to fresh psychiatric evaluations, involuntarily mandated rather than freely sought to allieviate. I need work people, technical support, and my ad banners.

I love cats more than anything, but I care about my ability to be good to them, and I am too haunted by losing them, and will never have Joey again. Tim, my helper off  the rolls, aims his barbs at me, particularly on ambitious days when I am wound hard and want him to come and go as rapidly as possible, but I do not sleep all day, an observation both he and my sister believe, in their exclusive views, is an accurate observation of my denial that pharmaceutical dependency would upgrade my outlook, and I'd kick his ass if I could, hers too. I have to get out of the chair to change my position. My legs swell and like many of his other clients, meaning he should know better, I have a pressure sore. If liberals don't meet these challenges, I am going to kick their asses through aligning myself with Krauthammer in the creation of the Militant Quad Party. And this is not all hyperbole, not entirely a barb of my own to stub progressives toes. I always have to bite my tongue, why? Because gay is now a gnostic spiritual quest, and blacks like Tim don't have my erudition. I have been impolitic myself with the fellow in the provision of free sociology lectures, but I am getting real tired, with celerity, of getting singled out for behavioral issues that are not symptoms of mental illness in and of themselves without factoring in the severity of my physical vulnerability. If I could find anyone else who would do the job and keep their mouths shut about my life, I would burn not a few minority views about wheelchair users, and fire him like a raging bull, to boot.

What I am attempting to emphasize here is not Timothy's prejudicial views as a passive and harried paraprofessional, or that my bigotry is virtuous, but that in certain respects, provincialism was beneficial to our species, and losing the bond of extended familial ties cannot be augmented by regulated social services. We speak nearly an entirely different language, Tim and I, even if he has the non threatening aspects coded in appropriately so that my trust is not too wary. I told him I was waiting for him to finish so that I could work on what I need to do to update my curriculum vitae, and he took this to mean I blamed him for my delay in filling out a job application. He has absolutely no idea what a cv is, what creating a professional paper trail looks like, and it is not that I do not understand; I understand perfectly, but also eschew liberalism's holy grail that diversity solves our problems. Was it necessarily a good thing that a private university accepted me, that my professors led me to believe I could become like them, on the one hand, while on the other the student body treated me like a foreign object?