I lucked out in the cat lottery, and because of that I am not afraid to sing the praises of my sweet little man, to acknowledge that I am a Cat Person, possibly verging on Crazy and Lady, if I’m going to be honest with you. I am crazy—about my cat (see what I did there?), to the point where I will talk about him on the internet without shame, and I will tell you also that he worries me.

He is not independent and brave and strong; he does not prefer the solitude of his own company and greet me as a tolerated interloper when I return. In fact, he gets very lonely, my sweet cat. He yells a lot. He tells me how sad he was and begs me never to leave again. He is a tragic figure, all big yellow eyes and sad round head. And then he grooms my nose until it is red and raw and I don’t know if I am being loved hard or punished roundly.

For the longest time I thought that the solution would be to get him a friend. I don’t want my fat little buddy to be lonely without me—I want him to be happy and fulfilled and Captain Purrs Contentedly of the Happiness and Tuna Brigade. Since his preferred solution is off the table—sometimes I need to shower and experience unfiltered daylight under the sky—I thought mine was a reasonable compromise. A kitten! A little pal who is fun to be with! Someone he can teach and mentor and love and cherish and cuddle and boss around and talk to! Someone to keep him occupied and alert and active! I am a genius.

Somehow I never got around to getting a kitten, because it involves a lot of planning and responsibility and an upturning of established routines and it is kind of expensive, a kitten. And what if I got a kitten and they didn’t get along? That is what stopped me from snatching up and hosing down the stray that appeared next to E’s house last year. What if it was a really bad idea? You’re not going to believe this, but sometimes I have really bad ideas.

When Jayrad asked if I could babysit his friend’s kitten while he went away on a romantic mountain biking weekend with his buddy, I said okay! Because I am a good person who likes to help, and because I thought trial kitten! A kitten trial! Fang is going to be so excited!

Fang was the least excited I have ever seen him. Fang was, in fact, the unhappiest cat you’ve ever seen. From the moment tiny, beautiful little Zoe the Glamour Cat entered his life, he considered it entirely over. He paced the length of the apartment mowing. Mow, mow, mow, mow, mow mow. I am unhappy. I am still unhappy. I CONTINUE TO BE UNHAPPY WHAT IS THIS TINY ORANGE THING I CANNOT EAT I AM UNHAPPY.

Zoe was unconcerned. Zoe was a tiny sweet kitten who rolled over and exposed her belly for love at the slightest opportunity. Zoe was made of love and cuteness. Zoe wanted to be your friend and my friend, Fang’s friend and the couch’s friend and the friend to everyone everywhere. Zoe was a Love Cat and Fang was unimpressed, and something inside me did not care because HOLY CRAP KITTEN.

Kittens are cute, you guys. They have big eyes and tiny paws and you want to eat them on a stick. They bounce! They play! They are in love with the world, and you, viewing the world through their big, wide eyes, fall in love with it all over again! Suddenly I understand May-December romance, and am ashamed.

I returned Zoecakes to her rightful owner last night, and Fang is as happy as if the Kitten Interlude had never happened. He is lying on my forearm as I type, making it difficult to hit the shift key. He will soon roll over and put his feet in my face, and then fall backwards, recover ungracefully and groom my nose studiously and with great concentration. We will neither of us discuss the kitten, because it is better that way. And also he doesn’t remember five minutes ago, let alone last evening.

My personal stance, my plank in the platform, is that I am very fond of Valentine’s Day. I am a fan of love; I am glad that there is a day that honors love, in all its forms, filial and fornicatory, penetrative and otherwise. I am cheesy, and okay with that, a little (lot) sappy, and okay with that, and I enjoy the people I love and want them to know that they are adored and there’s no need to be okay with that–it is just a true fact.

I don’t need flowers or chocolate (though I enjoy flowers and chocolate) and I don’t require the perfect romantic evening that starts with a candlelight dinner and ends with passionate, gazes-locked, whispered-pledges lovemaking on a bed of velvety rose petals. Though of course I do not judge you if that is how your Valentine’s Day must be conducted otherwise everything is ruined and your sweetheart never really loved you.

Our plans involve garlic and DVDs and for me, anyway, general, overall qualities of happiness and contentment, possibly because of the Oreos but maybe because I am a little cheesy and a little sappy and kind of crazy about this guy I’m seeing. But also I will call my mom, and my brother, and my best friend, and also I will tell you guys–Happy Valentine’s Day! Take my love. TAKE IT. You have no choice, for it is yours. But don’t tell me what you do with it.

photo via chicks57

That level of nerdery is okay, even totally awesome; when I start going deeper into nerdtown, I start to get embarrassed. I start to feel uncomfortable about the fact that I like computer games, that I have nostalgic thoughts about the Dragonlance series, that I accept invitations to go play D&D on a Saturday night.

And I know that I have bought into the loser-geek stereotype as much as anyone; that someone who enjoys things like role playing games with no irony whatsover is sad, a social outcast, someone who cannot relate to the real world and has no sense of self-preservation or self-awareness.

It’s a small corner of a larger problem: it makes me realize that hey, you know, I could do with a little less sense of self-awareness. I could do with a shovel and a few decades clearing out the pit of irony that has filled up to overflowing and become a mountain. I could do without worrying about preserving my dignity, the facade that I am sure that no one can see through except is totally transparent and why do I waste so much energy on it when it is not fooling anyone, again?

I am tired of being so aware of myself all the time, these layers upon layers, always watching myself, evaluating my actions and considering how I look to other people, what they might think of what I’m doing, saying, how I’m acting and what my motives are versus what people might think my motives are, ah ha, we have caught you!

You know what? It is fucking exhausting, people. I’m done.

I could use a spring cleaning. The feeling of throwing open all my windows and letting everything blow all to hell, letting the wind scouring the air clean. Work on saying, for example, I went to D&D on Saturday, you guys! I met a whole room full of people I like very much. They are smart and funny. They love playing D&D and it was fun. They want me to come back, and I said okay! I like you guys! And they said We like you too! And it was good and I was happy and I did not worry about my dignity or my coolness or hipness, and it was swell. And I feel swell.

photo by Tambako the Jaguar

Weirdly, I wasn’t really taken up on my offer, and I can’t imagine why. When Mo Pie and I talked about seeing Twilight–we share a sick fascination for its magnificent awfulness and balls-to-the-wall determination to be thoroughly offensive in every possible way–we said how cool it would be, if she came to visit and we saw the movie and we had a weekend where I could go look, here is my town and my house and my life and how things are for me. I spend a lot of time talking and writing and telling about how it is and where I live and what I do, but I have had the urge and the desire and the need–I don’t even know why, and I wish I did–to take someone around and show them and say look, this is what I am talking about, do you see?