At 5:56 this morning, my cat (Kitty Wang Wang) began to cry. This morning it was unusual because she had the consideration to do so in the living room, as opposed to directly in front of my bedroom door. She is a Russian Blue, which are apparently related to Siamese breeds somehow, meaning she inherited the genes of the Loudest Fucking Domestic Animals in the world.
This is only important because it awoke me with such a gentle crescendo that I was utterly alert and un-groggy by the time I registered the time. And then my mind began to shift around, against my will, getting ready for the day.
And the (sadly) most interesting thought I had concerning the day's agenda (for example, beyond playing "Mass Effect" and calling the vet to inquire about the cost of a rabies shot), was "Seriously. That pig scene was too much. It was graphic for shock value and made little narrative sense."
I was of course thinking about Season 4, Episode 2 of "The Walking Dead."
And I'd been meaning to incorporate more writing time into my daily life anyway, seeing as how I enjoy writing. Much like art, it's just not something I have the energy to indulge in when I work 10 hour days in a cubicle, and come home feeling like my brain and soul have been drained out. I even sort of persist in considering myself a writer, although the dissonance between this cherished identity and the reality of me never actually writing has in itself become quite the point of cognitive dissonance.
So, what the hell. I feel like writing about "The Walking Dead" this morning, and at this point I'll take whatever inspiration I can get. Kitty is curled up next to me, I have a nice cup of Sisters Coffee in hand, and the heat clicked on.
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