I don't often stop to reflect on my days, and when I feel most compelled to do so, twelve times out of eleven I am sorting out frustrations and wondering about life's greater purpose. I have been called "Emo" by several people, citing as evidence my comfort with blogging my doubtful moments, and the half dozen black collared shirts I own. But let me sort something out right now. "Emo is characterized as being particularly emotional, sensitive, shy, introverted, or angst-ridden. It has also been associated with depression, self-injury, and suicide." I would characterize myself as emotional, sensitive, and angst-ridden indeed. I would say that I am periodically depressed. My self-injury is cigarettes. But let me also say this. The next person who calls me "Emo" gets punched in the face, such that their visage may become a more apparent indicator of their senselessness.
Saturday was a difficult day. I get up early for my sixth day of class anyway. But Friday had been 60° and sunny, and Saturday morning was windy and snowing.
Bonkers half awoke and stretched a bit on his pillow, and would probably have gone back to sleep, but inadvertently nudged his pillow too close to the edge of the bed. A brief scramble, and he fell three and a half feet off the bed onto his ass, and ran away panicked and humiliated. I found him sitting in his special spot on the rug where the sun usually shines in the mornings. Only, there was no sun, because it was fucking snowing the day after 60° sunshine. So Bonkers just sat there, ears back, staring at the ground, emotional, sensitive, and angst-ridden. Probably a little depressed. I picked him up and reminded him that he is smart and handsome.
There's no moral to this story, just a photo of Bonkers, where he sometimes goes to sort things out.