Touching Hell

Not literally of course. I mean, nobody can touch hell. If Hell did exist, it would likely feel similar to the tactile delight that I experience a few days a week.

Cat food.

You see, Jones The Cat eats the stuff to survive. When she's slumming that is. You see, most days Jones eats people food. Tuna. Fucking tuna. You know you've done alright as an animal species when your culinary regimen involves a dish you can get at an expensive corner deli.

Anyway, I think it's important that we all remember our roots. Modesty is of paramount importance in a person's character, so by extension I like to instill it in Jones The Cat too. This is why Jones supplements her VIP diet with cat food. In all honesty though, it's not regular cat food. It's porn star. Due to her laundry list of hang-ups (psychological or otherwise) Ms Jones eats Medi Cal Hypoallergenic. Which brings me to my point.

Regardless of this stuff being of premium quality, cat food is still....cat food. From a mass production perspective, I shudder at the thought of what this stuff is. At the end of the day it's basic animal nourishment peppered with some flavour instinctively appetising to cats. But what's revolting to me is the feel of the stuff. Unless I'm doing it wrong (and I probably am), when I serve up some kitty mush, much of it sticks to the fork due to it's cold mealy consistency. As a result, I use a finger to push the terribleness off the fork into the bowl, which is when I am Touching Hell. Feeling this stuff on my digits, I physically cringe and some unknown organ within retreats, curls up and dies. The food is soft, but not too soft. There are tiny gritty particles I can detect, and forgive me if I forego commenting on the scent, because I wouldn't know. Instinctively I breathe only through my mouth when serving this feline cornucopia.



Jones The Cat

When it's over, I go to the bathroom, turn on a hot shower and sit down in the tub, and begin to sob uncontrollably. And when I see Jones afterwards, she quietly looks at me and sometimes I think I see a quiet appreciation in her eyes. But then I realize I'm being ridiculous.

So Here We Are

Ironically, the simplicity of this post's title is what astounds me. Four little words that say so much. It's really a good centre point for me. A place of balance. A mental benchmark that I can return to when Life occurs.

There's even a song titled So Here We Are. It's track ten on Bloc Party's album Silent Alarm. It's one of those songs that resonates for me. Not a clue if it has the same meaning to the band as it does to me, but isn't that the point of art?

There's much to say here, so this is just the beginning. But this isn't just about me. Your words are welcome here too, but not mandatory. Life provides us with enough rules, so we don't need any more here.

Welcome to Hobo Guantlet. Let the adventure begin.