When life gives you mold, make penicillin

I got crazy sick this week, so I am gonna pull this blog post out of my ass while I wait for a certain someone to wake up and pack his crap so we can run around like deranged chickens in Lethbridge for the rest of it. I have so many posts half executed in limbo right now, but that’s the thing with being worn down I guess… you gotta pick and choose what you’re going to allocate energy towards that day, and usually the things you only do for the sake of your own enjoyment gets pushed to the back of the queue.

It’s funny, because even though I try to put on my fun-living-joke-about-everything face on, I can definitely see through the cracks when it comes to my creative outlets. Using my blog as an example and going back the last few entries, my inability to harness my depression screams to me though the lines. This always happens, and usually when my facade breaks down, I pull a Conan the Destroyer and obliterate all physical traces with my sword of contrition.


Or something like that… yeah… DELETE!

I refuse to do that anymore. There is so much guilt and regret inside of me that I keep pushing down and erasing because I so desperately don’t want to be a person with a mental illness. I don’t want to be depressed, or anxious, or have to take medication just so I don’t break down into a futile, sobbing mess every day of my life, but here I am. It’s such a battle and I am tired of trying my hardest not to be defined, or labeled with something I still have extremely negative hang-ups over. I’m also tired of trying to fit inside a box that’s way too small and pretending everything is fine too, so YEAH! I’m glad that I can get this all out so freely through using this medium, but damn if it didn’t have to be done in the most public way possible and make me feel so exposed at times.

In other news, I am spending the night over at my parents tonight. It’s great because I usually get spoiled with a nice home cooked dinner and doted over because we only get to see each other a handful of times in a year. What can I say? I’m a ham and I like the attention. Speaking of ham, let me tell you about this guy right here:


This is Henry. He’s the family cat and my most favorite thing ever because he’s a huge, hilarious asshole and has no neck most of the time. Anyway, during this past Christmas season, he started to lose some weight and seemed off. We chalked this up to losing his BFF Mr. Kitty a few months prior and since nobody in the family is a certified cat whisperer and he was still eating and playing, we didn’t delve too much into it.

Fast forward to about a week before Easter and Henry isn’t doing too shit-hot. He’s suddenly not eating, drinking, or using the bathroom. His weight takes an even sharper decline and my parents rush him into the local vet where prognosis is not good. Long story short, he’s probably dying. The vet was going to inject him with some powerful steroids as a last ditch effort, but with prognosis already so grim – my parents decided that he was suffering too much and plans are made for them to say their goodbyes to him in the morning.

Friday morning comes and I deliberately ignored my phone because I did not want to read the texts confirming the worst and that he has been put down. When I finally did muster the cojones to deal with things, this is what I received instead:


A goddamn Easter miracle. Good Friday indeed! Long story short, Henry has cat diabetes, or as I would like to call them – CATABETES. He needs cat insulin twice a day now and other than being a little scrawny still, you would have never known he was literally scratching on death’s door a mere two months ago. He eats and purrs and shits and this was the craziest NICEST surprise I’ve had in a very long time.


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