There are times I come out of the men’s room at the Microsoft campus and can’t remember where I am. I look left and right, I pick a direction and walk with confidence but it all looks similar and slightly different, and I have to stop and check myself. There’s the picture of Kurt Cobain wearing sunglasses and a boa around his neck, that helps if I keep it on my left and head the opposite way.

More anti-aging facial cream came for my mom today so I put it under the sink in the guest bathroom with her other things for when she comes back. What’s the harm in using it, better than surgery I guess?

Charlotte gets nervous if I put the maple syrup on her waffles, prefers it on the side so she can apply the right amount herself but won’t use a knife or fork, pushes back on tying her hair, to keep it out of the syrup.

With the cat I have to take care when changing brands of litter because that causes distress, that’s what the animal behaviorist said we paid $500 for, before taking the dog and two cats to Germany, and what a fucking jackass I must have been sitting there talking about that, like I needed therapy myself, it would have cost less.

Coming out of the restroom it’s like a funhouse where the floors tilt and the walls move, like being inside a cup they use for shaking dice on a board game.

A mural the size of the wall by the elevator at Microsoft with Picasso and a quote by him, how everyone starts out as an artist when they’re young, the challenge is remaining one as you grow up. And can you call yourself that if you don’t sell, or if your art is making coasters for the coffee table, or blogging?

For reasons I don’t understand the dog leaves her bone by the back door right where we walk and when I put it in the basket she puts it back like it’s some game.

The quiet in the men’s room between urinals when two men are trying to go at the same time that can only be filled with small talk and distraction. The quiet grows to consume you, it sucks all the moisture out.

Ginger’s bone gets muddy and bloody and more like a real bone, not a sanitized or store-bought one, and I think that must be the trick, her game: to simulate real life and return to the pack, to undo all this domestic cleansing. She doesn’t understand why I use toilets and nor do I.

Categories: musings

Tags: cats, dogs, humor, Kurt Cobain, Memoir, Nirvana, pets, postaday, stream-of-consciousness, Tourettes syndrome, William Pearse writer