It’s been almost a month since I last wrote. A MONTH! I have no good excuse, either. I tend to have a surplus of ideas at all times. And then I don’t post them generally because of the ever-present doubt in the back of my head that lingers (and burns) like a fart that just won’t go away: Who even cares?
And in the shuffleboard of my priorities, the blog usually gets the last slot, so there’s also that.
But really, there’s a conflict inside me. I have so much I want to write about. I’d love to return this blog to a more mundane recapping of my days and weeks. I feel people used to read it more when it was about that stuff. But I strayed away from that because I began to ask myself, who even cares about this?
I mean, technically speaking, nobody does. But also technically speaking, everybody does. It’s the same impetus that draws us to novels, stories, overheard snippets, and more. We’re just inherently interested about other people’s lives. Even if we don’t actually care about it.
But I also thought I’d be more sparing with my content, so that I could produce real, bonafide pieces that I cared about and put effort into.
I mean, I still want to do that. I’m not trying to publish random assortments of spelling errors here.
So I think there’s a middle ground. I’m going to try to post more often, with lower self-censoring and with higher regard for writing about whatever the fuck I want to write about.
So what the hell’s been going on in my life?
I started a new job. It’s a part-time thing, nights only, four days a week, also remote work. I get to talk to people on the west coast, speak in Spanish, and create (AND MAINTAIN!) spreadsheets. Not bad, for a side gig!
I went to Nashville recently with one of my best friends, Leslie. It was a combination foodie and yoga tour. We studied with my mom’s authorized Ashtanga teacher, and were collectively sore for two days afterward because that’s what studying with Shae means. She tweaks you so hard that every aspect of your practice feels it. We also consumed a frightening amount of tofu and talked until our vocal chords shriveled up.
Earlier this week, Jorge crept into my office with a mysterious cardboard box and a crazed, gleeful look on his face. “I have a surprise,” he warned, maybe ominously to my ears as I assessed the box and realized it could be only one thing: a pending pet.
AND LO! Inside the box was a quivering bunny. Super small, super cute, and very, very caught in this box. Jorge explained that he’d rescued the bunny from certain death, since one of the farm cats was about to kill it.
“Awesome,” I said, eyeing the little creature, millions of questions springing to mind. Questions like: where are we going to put this little thing so he can exercise and play enough that he doesn’t get angry and depressed? How can we let him know we mean no harm? He has no idea what’s going on and he’ so scared, how do we calm him? What do we feed him? What will we do with him when it’s time for us to leave for South America later this year?
Jorge fashioned a makeshift cage for him, and his attempts to escape the box haunted me the entire night. I felt physically heavy because this tiny creature was in our house, confused and scared, on the fast track to becoming our pet.
The next day, the cage improved, and we played with the bunny more since his fear factor had diminished a little bit. We named him Benny. Jorge was in love. I worried about Stockholm’s Syndrome, because here we are the captors, taking this rabbit hostage until he falls in love with us. But as my friend Alison pointed out, that’s the case for most pets. So there’s the other side of owning pets, I guess: thinly veiled psychological manipulation.
By day 3, I felt better about Benny because we got hay for him and some rabbit pellets and his cage was really awesome by then and he was totally cool with eating in front of us and he just seemed to be really warming up to the human-rabbit-indoor-sweet luxury life. I thought, yeah. This can work, Benny. You can nuzzle against my neck while I read and you’ll playfully chew toilet paper tubes and I’ll sprinkle hay everywhere and you’ll look at me with sparkling eyes that tell me you love your captor with all your heart.
The next morning, as Jorge made his rounds downstairs, he discovered that Benny had died.
We’ve been in mourning all week. I feel bad, because we probably killed him with his diet. Baby bunnies have notoriously sensitive stomachs, and the switch from wild farm life to captive greens diet probably pushed him to his end.
In fact, it was probably the carrots that did it. What terrible, terrible irony.
RIP, BENNY! We loved you, however briefly.