I've had tears running down my face all day, but surprisingly, my makeup holds up.
Life's chewed me up and spit me out once again.
I got off the Greyhound at 12:35...right on time.
Sweaty, exhausted, and frankly disgusted to see all this frozen white garbage littering the grass.
I didn't come back on a good note.
No, I'm not talking about the countless turds Demon laid on my bedroom floor.
I'm talking about the fact that the cats weren't even there.
I walked in to my living room thinking they were taken to a shelter and immediately put down.
My aunt then informed me that they'd be staying at her garage.
Basically, the same thing.
After she said that would be the best option for them,
she went on to talk about her cat who had just died because he walked outside and got hit by a car on the highway.
My kittens have been indoor-only since birth.
They don't deserve to be thrown out with someone's trash bags and garage-sale castoffs.
They could contract a disease from some wandering tom cat,
be impregnated by an unknown stray with who knows how many diseases,
eaten by a hungry dog that feels like passing by,
shot by a heartless redneck with a mood for killing...
My aunt couldn't even promise they'd all be there when I was ready to take them back and move.
And I'm supposed to be GRATEFUL?
I'll only be grateful when they're with me again.
I feel like a wrongly accused mother who just lost her children to the unknown horrors of foster care.
I don't even know WHEN I can see them again...
Until I do, I'll remain this quivering mess who's seriously lacking something to love.