It’s never been more true.
She found us. The most memorable ones often do.
She found us, claimed us, and we, in various configurations, were her faithful servants for 16 years.
She was our very first pet. I happily called her my familiar in my most outspoken versions of witchy identity.
She converted my father, who had been decidedly anti-cat until she wriggled her way onto his lap time and time again——but only after he put her favorite throw on it.
When it came to laps, Evan’s was the only one she enjoyed, of all my boyfriends. She jumped on his lap, would knead with her claws, perfectly sharp from honing them on tree bark. Then, he’d pet her, and she’d drool. You can’t fool drool.
She was spayed twice. Not knowing her history before she came to us, we had them perform the operation, only to find she was already operated on. You’ve never seen a family so apologetic to a cat. You would’ve sworn she was Bastet herself.
It happened again when she got her tail caught on something outdoors (she was a fiercely independent indoor-outdoor cat) and ripped almost the whole thing off. It was painful to see her now-nub wag back and forth in a little cast.
It happened one more time when, due to some form of miscommunication or another, she got shaved at the vet’s. Everything except her head and paws. She was the saddest-looking tortoise-shell lioness.
Why she kept coming back after all that, I’ll never know. But she did. And meowed loudly at the sliding glass door every time. And we were and are still grateful for it.
A cursory search through a tearful veil reveals that “Misha” means “Who is like God” or “Who looks like God.” Maybe she was Bastet incarnate after all.
Good night, Mishoo. Forever may you reign.
"Let’s try casting an actual mountain this time."
Is it season 4 yet???
"Are you feeling a little bisexual, honey?"
Definitely wasn’t what I was expecting from my coming out experience at 16. My father, talking me through it gently, my mother’s face cloaked in a giant Spanish magazine, saying nothing.
I’d prepped myself for it for days. I finally saw an opportunity when I learned that a much older half-sister, from my father’s first marriage, sent him a letter saying that she’d changed her name and starting living with a lovely woman.
I started with the questions, somehow using something topical from school or in the news to break the ice. I started with, “How would you feel if a coworker was gay, or a lesbian, or bisexual? What about a friend? What about…a very close friend? Or a family member? A very…close…family member?”
"Are you feeling a little bisexual, honey?"
Like I’d come down with something. I stammered, trying to find where to go with it next, until he plainly stated that I shouldn’t make decisions like that until I was 18—-hilarious, considering that, by that point, I was on birth control and my boyfriend and I were making liberal use of it and already talking about how to spice up the doldrums. Like we’d been doing this for years—but months might as well be years at that age.
This boyfriend would become my husband. Early in our relationship, he respected my need to figure myself out. He didn’t ask to watch. He just wanted me to be honest. I never did anything but kiss a few girls in the couple of months following. We eventually decided that monogamy was monogamy, and that I wouldn’t get a hall pass for experimentation’s sake. Cheating would be cheating, no matter what the gender. I still identify as bisexual, but I rarely bring it up. I don’t need to. I fell in love with a boy first, my high school sweetheart, married him, and continue to dance the heteronormative dance.
When I played “Gone Home” today, I cried. Cried for my coming out moment that never had a chance to stick because I “stuck with the group.” Cried because I saw myself in Sam, in the slow discovery of how I felt when she would look at me that way. That it was the same feeling as when he looked at me that way. I cried because I saw myself in Sam, because he was my Lonnie. The lover in the band. The open door policy. The grounding after being caught. The car doors slamming shut with a cry of “But, Daddy, I LOOOOOOVE him.” Teenagers, right?
Then, I cried even harder. For the many ways I couldn’t see myself in Sam. For the Lonnie that never was. For the Lonnie that never could be. For the Lonnie that I can’t point to and say, “See? It’s her. I loved her. It was more than a kiss. It’s not a phase. It’s not a trend.”
It’s not just a feeling.
FINALLY SOMEONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT. A few days ago, journalist Linda Stasi wrote an article about SyFy’s upcoming Competative Reality Show: Heroes of Cosplay. Now, actually opinions on the show are to be lightly touched upon (Personally, I think it’s bad news), but the article itself was filled with over exaggerations, stereotypes, and a kind of tone that was very degrading. This article can be read HERE, but here’s a picture of it below.
This journalist has no idea what she’s talking about, and as you read the article, this becomes more and more apparent. However, shortly after this article was posted, MiamiNewTimes posted a open letter directed to NewYork Post. The letter is the photos shown above.
It’s great and People even here on Tumblr should read it. It wraps up cosplaying to the very heart of it. If anyone asks you about cosplay, send them that letter.
::looks at number of notes, faints::
That escalated quickly. :)
How my program director feels about that statement:
"No, honey. You have a proposal to write, the defense, IRB courses, and making enrollment so you don’t starve."
This keeps me writing when all other motivation is gone.