Small grey spiders spinning in the dark, in spite of all the times the web is torn apart.

I just dropped Peach off at the vet for a forty-eight hour IV treatment. Her kidneys are acting funny. No evidence as to whether it is an infection, an acute case of kidney disease or one that has become chronic.

I skipped school today to be with her. To sit with her on the floor and carry her to her water bowl and carry her back to our rectangular sun spot in the living room. We talked about boys, litter boxes and ultra violet radiation. I carried her to the clinic, and calmed her down by whispering things to her about the ugly dogs and equally ugly veterinary assistants. When they took her away, I felt her claws hold my shirt a moment longer. She meowed goodbye. I sobbed so hard my glasses fell off.

I hated it when they referred to her as a cat.

She's not a fucking cat you imbecile - she's a person.

She's going to be okay. She's going to be okay because she has to be okay. Because I think of her as my child. She's my baby. My baby Peach. My baby Peach is going to be okay.

Right?

I'm pissed off. Let down. I feel like cats should live forever and some people should die alone. I've got a bruise on my finger from writing sixteen pages of rambling goodness on an airplane. I've got a scraped knee and a broken heart. As far as I'm concerned, my own diagnosis is dismal. I feel like I'm in free fall. Down down down. 9.81 meters per second squared. Square kleenex tissues scrunched and streaked black, scattered around the shape of a cat. I want to be a cat. If I could take all of Peach's pain, I would. I'd take all of it. She means everything to me, she's worth it. She can have both my kidneys. She can sleep in my bed and drink my morning tea. I'd take all her hurt, in a heartbeat.

"I can hear your heartbeat."

I need a wrist brace. I need some scotch on the rocks. I need a tie-dye shirt. I need a basil plant. And I need to keep it alive. I need Peach and Kiwi to be healthy. I need consistency. I need my piano tuned. I need to learn to like mangoes. I need to check my facebook messages more often. I need to go for a run. I need to learn my lines. I need mail. Even if it is e-mail. I need good news. I need a shorter to-do list. I need to finish a song. I need to stop crying. I need tea. I need a hug.

You know what really jars my preserves?

When people are completely unwilling to give you a little hope. "False hope" they call it. Give me one example where hope is exactly tangible. Where you've got something real to hold on to. No. Hope is bullshit we make up to make ourselves feel better. It's all false. And sometimes it's all we really need. I don't care what you call it, hope, false hope, fantasy, wishful-thinking - just give me some. I need it right now. It keeps me going. Keep your pessimism, your realism, your "don't be offended" and your "you're not going to want to hear this." That's for you. Scrape together the dust bunnies and collections of debris in the corners of your soul. Heave your heart into your mouth. Because sometimes, we all need a grand gesture - and a little bit of hope.

I am the pot, and I'm calling you, the kettle, black. I like knowing how you feel. Even though I don't tell you how I feel. I want you to make an effort. Despite not being much of an example lately. I want you to pull out all the stops. But my stops are still in the drawer where they've collected dust since last September. I want you to to want me. Well, I win there.

The house feels empty. The sun is cold and the room has taken on a blueish tinge. My fingers feel uncomfortable on the keys, forced. My eyelids are heavy and swollen. I'm aware of how numb my feet are. Sound of hard water on stainless steel. Of a muffled hockey game from an old television covered in static. My team is probably losing. The smell of sick. Sick felines, sick thoughts, sick relationships. The dull pain when biting my cheeks, a braces-related habit. I have scars in my mouth. I can feel the scar tissue on my fingers where the pencil rubs from vigorous writing about nothing at all. Letters I never sent. Drawings that looked good at the time. Writing your name, just to see how it looks. This time, everything is different. I'm scared to go above and beyond. I'm scared to cook you soup. Soup with kale. Soup for the soul.

If I have a soul, cats have souls.

This hurts. It hurts like when you jump from too high and land on your feet without bending your knees. It's the tingling, numbing, abnormal feeling that rushes from your heels through your tendons to your knees, tensing the fronts of your legs and sending a lightning bolt of pain through your body. It feels like parts of your body are about to fall off, or be ripped off, and you're not quite sure. You can't tell if it's real, or if your dead.

And part of you sincerely hopes you're dead.

"Nobody ever said life was fair." To the asshole who said that: no one asked you for your opinion; shut the fuck up.

I need you, now, more than ever.

I love you, Peach. I love you so much. Be strong, get healthy again. I know you can do it. You've been here for me, all these years. It's my turn to be here for you. I love you.