Packing for one person, packing for one month. FunkyPlaid leaves tomorrow on his visit to the Bay Area.
We clipped the cats’ nails because it has become a two-person job. Although one will sit patiently and let you do pretty much anything, the other contorts the upper half of his body independently from the lower half, creating a double-vectored cat-tornado. But both cats eagerly anticipate a dollop of hairball control paste for their trouble, which is basically malt-flavoured petroleum jelly. Cats are weird.
I just received spam offering a glimpse into anyone’s criminal records.
FunkyPlaid’s departure is bringing up all sorts of weird feelings for me. Now we do this in reverse: last August, he came here and I stayed there. But now home is here, and feels very solidly here, whereas I had been breaking off from San Francisco for years, in little ice-floes that melted away. I don’t know what I will be stepping onto when I go back in a few weeks. The sheer phrasing of it, “go back,” is making me uneasy.
Then I suppose the only thing to do is to go forward to it in a different direction.
Next time I want to be poetic, I will take my bra off the radiator first.