I lifted my chopsticks up, and the noodles curled and yawned, meeting the cold air of life, curling and stretching and dripping soup. I could see them as individual strands that intertwined, shifting and changing, always dripping residue.

She didn't call me, and thoughts of possible scenarios played themselves in my mind and branched off into a million conclusions, so I decided to leave her alone. To touch her would be to transfer these that were running in my body, to confuse and to shock and to drag down. The chopsticks would slip and noodles would fall into the ramen with a dead 'slup', thrown back and limp with an IV catheter, no longer useful.

I argued for two hours yesterday on the phone, and it seems that I couldn't say what I could say, because the phone said that I was wrong, and after that was a constant tail-chasing argument. I flopped spastically on my bed and stared at the ceiling light, which had small bugs running around it like horses around a circular race track. Some of the horses were dead, and had been collected in the middle of the track. They were the sacrifices, the dead in the pyre, burning high, flickering long into the night.

I was walking and thinking, feeling this impossible singularity in my veins and wondering how everything would turn out, like the individual victims after a spaghetti-meatball car crash. Separated, amputated, deconstructed, threads of lives running together into giant knots then branching off again. Right then, a wave of wind blew my hair upwards and out and my eyes opened, and then I was there. It was roaring past, and because of that, it was alright.

I've been listening to the same playlist for about a month now. All the other songs in my collection yelling to be let out. I want to say what I want to say, and I was shoved back by glassy-smooth arguments that said "no" in a firm and authorative tone that landed squarely on my shoulders like the sudden weight of a bench press. Bland agreeability, and knowing for the sake of knowing? I like depth. I like depth, as in the sweet pockets of chocolate fudge secreted in the depth of an expensive and heavy sundae. I like clear pools than deep and murky ones, though. The clear ones are rare. Everybody likes triple-fudge and double-butterscotch sundaes.

There are always leaves outside my window, and in the autumn they will turn red and orange and brown. My window will turn red and orange and brown. My view will turn red, orange, and brown, bringing with it bloodshot eyes that anger at nothing, punching fluid waters into choppy waves that overturn fishermen and waves and two twin towers and David Blaine and all the other controversial hot new interesting passionate shocking topics in that other world. It's been a while since I've watched TV, so it's been a while since I've noticed. It's been a while since I've talked with someone who knew how to talk. I told that friend that "people don't know how to talk" and he asked, "Articulation?" I said "not in words" and he said "In metaphors?" I said "not using vocal chords" and then he asked "Hand gestures?"

People knew how to talk, at least then, but now everything is being dumbed down over coats of varnish and water-proof DuPont textiles. The sky is falling down, and we are all dying, and last week and the year before that we used to run uphill both ways and the white snow was so thick that your knees stuck in and life was so rich and hard that you actually had to spoon it up with your palms in order to drink it. Firm and concrete things are disappearing, and I'm finding that the ground is slipping underneath, waving and blending like psycheadelic nauseating hallucinations, changing, changing, gray, grey. Slipping like icicles through gloved fingers.

People knew how to talk, at least then, when friends were friends and enemies were enemies, when black was dark and white was bright, when the mix of horrid gray didn't blur everything into an uncertain obligation that had to be done under the excuse of prevention. "I don't 'love' but I 'like', I don't 'hate' but I 'dislike'". I Might Not Like Him But I Don't, It's Just So-So..

But then again, I think, hasn't it always been this way?

As my boyfriend walked me to my car we heard a heart-wrenching meow coming from the end of the driveway. It was the same meow that had echoed across the neighborhood for the past week, but this time, the kitten was only a few feet away. I slipped off my shoes and approached quietly, expecting her to bolt. Instead, this little grey and white ball plopped down on the ground and began to purr. I was in love.

She was so skinny, with matted fur and mud-caked feet. My boyfriend brought out a dish of cat food, which she ignored. She was so busy rolling on the ground, rubbing my legs, and just enjoying herself- I don’t know if she even quite knew what "cat food" was. As cars drove by, she became more agitated and began to wander away. I scooped her up and brought her back to the driveway for more petting.

Time passed quickly, and I didn’t know what to do. I can’t have pets in my building and this little kitty would eat my boyfriend’s cat (this kitten has all of her claws, while my boyfriend’s cat has none). All I really knew was that I couldn’t leave it outside. With the amount of traffic in the area and the fact that this little one was curious, the chances of her surviving were slim. Neighbors had already activated the calling tree, and nobody had claimed this beautiful kitten.

We decided to take her to the police department (all of the shelters close early, leaving the police to take the animals to the animal hospital in the morning). My boyfriend brought out the kitty carrier, and I nudged her inside. During the drive over, she was frantic, clawing at anything she could reach (including my hand when I tried to comfort her). I began to devise ways that I could keep her. If she’s really quiet, doesn’t ruin the carpet, and never gets out the door, I won’t be evicted. If she stays in my room all day, it could work. If I put a kitty litter in the laundry room… I knew they were unrealistic plans, but I felt awful about leaving her with the police.

Arriving at the police station, my boyfriend held the carrier while I approached a policeman. It was not a fun moment, walking up to a squad car with my hand wrapped in a bloody McDonald’s napkin. He probably thought I was insane, but once I stammered out my request somewhat coherently, he told me where to go.

My boyfriend and I were buzzed into the department and waited until an officer came to speak with us. The officer that walked out to greet us looked very young, and I was skeptical about leaving the little angel with him. Thankfully, he took one look at my boyfriend and said, "Nice to see you again." They had been friends back in junior high. I was reassured. Introductions followed, and I made sure that the kitten would be well taken care of during her stay. We warned the officer about the fact that this little kitty did not like the cage and would probably try to scratch anyone attempting to calm her through the bars (I proffered my hand as evidence). He thanked us for the advice and we said our good-byes.

The drive home was tough for me. Although I had only known this kitten for a short while, it was difficult to give her to the police. I plan to call the animal hospital first thing Monday morning to see how she is doing and if anyone has called about her. If not, my boyfriend and I will place an ad in the newspaper. It is my hope that her owners will come to claim her. If it had been my kitten roaming around crying, I would hope that someone would have brought her somewhere safe.

I’m going to miss that grey and white kitten with the orange eyes.

Update That sweet little kitten was adopted three days after we took her to the police station. She is now enjoying the holidays safe and sound with a new family.

So it's been yet another very long while since I've posted anything here. Nothing much has changed about my life since my last Daylog- still working at the magazine, still saddled with the strip-club-bouncer night job (which I hate with a white-hot passion), still doing 3D modelling, still broke. My roomie has shown that, no, he cannot in fact remain sane or civil. I'm still single and hating it. Haven't written much of anything lately (another long drought of writer's block). Not getting much sleep lately. Been antisocial like mad lately.

It's been almost a month since I popped into E2. Not much has changed here, either. The servers, I've noticed, have gotten progressively slower, which is a bit of a bother, but that's not really my problem, is it?

Got a new laptop, which is far and away better than the old clunker I was using for the better part of two years. It's nice to be able to fire up 3DS Max whenever I want to or Photoshop without wondering if it's going to make my computer vomit.

I miss writing. God, do I miss it.

I miss creating scenarios, worlds, characters and ideas that take me away from the world I live in. I miss the warm, fuzzy feeling I get when I write, too. And it's not like I haven't tried, mind you. There's just so much else that's been taking up my time and energy. The magazine is still struggling just to keep its doors open, let alone pay the staff on a regular basis. All of my free time is being spent either sleeping or taking care of chores/responsibilities. I miss my freedom of youth, most of all, the ability to do whatever tickled my fancy from one moment to the next. Nowadays, the only creative writing I do is when I'm editing someone's articles which were too long/short for the magazine, the blue-moon posting to a Trek RPG or snippets of humorous stuff on the SciFi-Meshes forums. That, to be honest, is no way for a writer to live or express himself.

But what can I do? I'm stressed to the gills. Therein lies the source of my writer's block. Stress. Depression. Doubt.

I'm living leaner and meaner these days. It's a no-frills life and it sucks most of the time. I may be an isolationist by nature, but this is getting ridiculous.

I keep telling myself that once the magazine starts paying me what it should, then I'll be able to relax some and get back to a sense of normalcy.

What is normal?

"Normal is what everyone else is and you are not." - Doctor Tholian Soran, Star Trek: Generations

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