Here Kitty Kitty Kitty

Re- Posted from some other blog…written by some other person. Damn, they seem so familiar too 😉

Here Kitty Kitty Kitty.

via  Here Kitty Kitty Kitty.

Read the original at the Beetlejuice 2014 at the link above,

I has pictures and every-thang!

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Last week my therapist told me I should adopt Cat as my totem animal. This is the same guy who told me he believed in aliens a few weeks ago. Not as in ‘there must be life out there some place’ but the whole ancient astronauts building the pyramids and making crop circles. Pulled my jaw up off the floor and said ‘Did you ever consider that when a civilization gets to a certain point somebody says ‘Hey, I am sick and tired of these goddamned square buildings?.’
Think I hurt his feelings but since a therapist is basically just a person you pay to be your friend, he can deal with it.

This is the So You’re A Cat backstory. Make sure your coffee is still hot.
I’ve been a Raven for more years than I can remember (so up until 2012 at least).
Think may know I’m diagnosed bi-polar (about 10 years ago). Along with a list of other disorders; which I was only made aware of after looking at my intake/nurse’s form and hospital records during that lovely 2 month hospital stay last year. It’s my expert opinion that my diagnosis consists of two disorders and they go together, but what do I know?
Have only had 3 manic episodes in my life; none caused me to re-paint the house, chain smoke or lose weight though. Have what is called Dysphoric Mania.

So the point is: Prior to being diagnosed as anything but a garden variety neurotic with Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety Disorder (this is what happens when your father is a psychiatrist) I KNEW when an ‘episode’ of severe depression, and all of my worst symptoms, was impending.
I hear cats.

They’re saying ‘Banish the dog! Banish the dog!
I Hear Cat Voices. This isn’t the pin I carried. This graphic almost appalls me with it’s bad design. I feel a lawsuit coming on.

Not like Son of Sam; Snowball isn’t telling me to kill the dog or the neighbors. Just a faint meowing of a kitty coming from somewhere outside my line of sight. As I’ve always had a cat or cats it didn’t seem that bizarre, and has become a family joke. A few close friends are also aware and are cheerfully allowed to make puckish comments about the kitty thing. When I owned a retail store there was a button available that I carried, ‘I Hear Cat Voices.’ Sonofabitch I sold hundreds of those. Makes me wonder.

So I get this a new shrink here, as I moved. The guy is humorless and has no business as a clinician. Only see him for meds so let it slide. Made the mistake of mentioning the cat thing to this I-take-every-word-literally fool while he was filling out his 50 question paperwork on our first visit. Then he asks me how often I hallucinate.
Back up. What? I don’t SEE cats, and on occasion I have heard cats and there’s actually a cat outside the door.
I DO check every time though. Hmmmm. Also thinking: after everything I’ve told him: what I’d like to work on, past traumas that still bother me, how come mom and dad did like me best?
Why is he fixating on the cat thing?
My second visit he leans back in his chair and says, with his thick accent, and out of the blue, “Tell me about these cats.” All I could think of was the Thomas Dolby song Blinded me with Science with the line ‘Tell me about your childhood!’

Tell me about these cats…

So back to last week: Was telling my therapist about my loony psychiatrist and the cat obsession. He cracked up and said in all seriousness ‘I think you should adopt the cat as your spirit animal.’
Thought about it for a few seconds and said ‘You’re right. I’ve always wanted to come back as one of my cats. Sure it’s a paradox, but so am I.’

I don’t like milk but this shouldn’t be a hindrance. My own cat doesn’t like milk. Unless it’s in the form of ice cream. Whoa, me too!

Which breed am I? Cool cat? Hep cat? Am I registered. Damn, at least I’ve been spayed.

Kitties and Sunshine and Effexor,
Beetlejuice
Beetlejuice
Beetlejuice

The Banana Peel of Death

Some night I’ll drink one too many glasses of wine and take one too many Benzos. Well, assuming I decide to drink.

Just have a feeling.

Is it suicide then? Not sure. The Magic 8 Ball says Conditions Cloudy. Check Later.

The older I get the more it seems plausible; so many whose deaths were ruled as accidental were really not so. Maybe accidental on that particular day, but not in total.
Hollywood Babylon makes it the reality it is, and takes the romance out. Good reading if you’re planning on a non-accidental going away party.
Or a party of one sans invitation.

My tentative plans involve going out someplace where family and/or friends will not have to deal with finding me. Well, finding me and cleaning up the aftermath actually. One of the benefits of too many forensic/scientific shows and books is foresight. I’m such a giver.

I know what will happen after checking out. It will be a goddamned mess. Pills or a bullet it doesn’t matter. It’s a horror show for whoever finds you and has to clean that shit up.

I’m thinking hotel. Big hotel with lots of staff and a good reputation. They’ve a familiarity with these things. They have experience AND those big-ass commercial steam-cleaners.

In the last nine months my face has aged almost 10 years. It’s been the hardest year. I read that rubbing bananas on your teeth will whiten them. Now there’s some stupidity whose author could use a dirt nap.

Looking in the mirror makes me cringe. The lines of worry, dry crêpe spots from stress and creases from sleeplessness create a relief map. It’s hideous and sad.

So when does that desire to escape the reality which is slowly killing you turn the dial to Broil?

When does your subconscious slide into the Oops position?

That would be just fucking perfect. With my luck it would be Benzos and a bowl of ice cream. Found two days later covered in chocolate, caramel sauce, sliced banana, strawberry jam and Spanish peanuts. Oh, and kitty bite marks. I could do a Lupe Valez and a Marie Provost.
I gotta stop indulging in those damned noir and vintage films. Or the ice cream.

No matter what, I’d go out smiling

The banana peel of death.

I like that.

~miss b