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.