Editor’s note: The images below may be disturbing. Be assured that Chester is doing wonderfully well and free from pain today. It is possible to forget how it feels to be touched. Hands go cold at the sight of your face. Smiles turn to stone when you slink by. It is lonely inside your skin, […]
Autumn is in the eyes of the beholder. Is it homework, or cardigans with pockets big enough to carry kittens? Is it decay, or farm stands selling warty gourds with googly eyes? Is it the last belch of the year, or a belated beginning?
Holidays are terrific, terrible reminders of all the feelings you have ever felt. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you are a cyborg. And you know and I know that you’re as real as life and breath and egg nog.
Even when we expect an exit, we’re not entirely ready. Not emotionally. Not viscerally. And not literarily.
Chester Rosenberg “should not” be flourishing. Chester Rosenberg “should not” be more energetic than a dozen Jimmy Fallons. Chester Rosenberg does not believe in should-ing on himself.
March is the consummate in-between month. Lion and lamb. Winter and spring. Death and life.
This is a high-stakes day for our citizenry. Emotions are running high across the realm. Of course, I am talking about the sovereign nation of Tabby’s Place.
So let’s say you’re old — somewhere between Bernie Sanders-old and Brontosaurus-old. Let’s say you’re a little bit decrepit. OK, maybe more than a little. Where are ya gonna live?
I’m not gonna try to drizzle this with syrup, kittens. We’ve been battered, beaten and boxed about the ears this month.
It’s August, kittens. August. The month of pterodactyl-sized bugs and Venus-high heat and the first flirtations with fall.