It is common knowledge to anyone that has ever known me that I suffer from an emotional disorder. One look at my apartment is very revealing of this fact. It would incriminate me in any public forum that attempts to prove my purpose-filled condition for those who seek to run an artistic cat from his litter box.
Most of my time is spent sitting at my computer. When working on it, I am usually imagining that I’m smoking, while wondering if my smartphone is within reach for my next frequent notification from a health care provider.
When not on my computer, I often look for my guitar pick case. It’s a woven basket that can usually be found resting on a bookshelf. Worry about the case’s location creates the perpetual stress necessary for me to keep developing new ideas for sensible songs that can be released from the cramped studio in my apartment.
I’ve decided that what this cat needs for survival is to keep finding my basket case in a song while waiting on another health care appointment in my litter box.