living alone has recently freaked me out for the first time. okay yeah i did need moral support at one point long ago when it was me or the bug. when i’ve not had a friend on hand, i’ve handled things. indeed, i once began then extinguished a small house fire with only a cat as witness. (RIP Cleo, super unrelated) but last week i painfully strained my thumb opening something. the thing got opened, at the ever-rising cost of the numerous successive containers i’ve stressed out my hands against since. not to mention the real ego boost of having to admit any truth about this injury when hiking, biking, climbing, and rafting are all part of our daily lives. how the fuck, you might ask, when all of that is part of your “daily life”, was this actually the injury? i will tell you: it is aging, my child. time on the planet. you might not have been bothered by any fears for a while: prepare yourself to live suspiciously. even a blueberry can come for me now, living alone. there’s no cat to eat me here. leave my body for the birds.

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