Been on vacation for over a week now at the apartment...*YAAAAAAAAWWN*...that I've become fully and completely bored. Two days ago I started counting things. I counted the blades on the window blinds, how many steps it takes from my litter box to the crow's nest, from the crow's nest to the fridge, the fridge to the litter box to the window perch, to Matt's bed, etc...
I miss seeing the scenery fly by at high speeds. It made me sick at first, and I had to bury my head under Matt's bunk pillow the first day on the road. But now I guess I've gotten so used to it...so used to it, in fact, that I long for it. Is that strange? All day long I sit around the apartment doing nothing. Even my toys, once a source of frenzied excitement to me, have become symbols of imprisoned inertia. I feel like John McCain at the Hanoi Hilton...but without the torture...or bad food...or lack of a controlled indoor climate...or other horrid living conditions, etc... Have I taken on some mental illness that requires me to be "confused?" Do I need to go to Confuse-A-Cat Ltd.???
I miss seeing the scenery fly by at high speeds. It made me sick at first, and I had to bury my head under Matt's bunk pillow the first day on the road. But now I guess I've gotten so used to it...so used to it, in fact, that I long for it. Is that strange? All day long I sit around the apartment doing nothing. Even my toys, once a source of frenzied excitement to me, have become symbols of imprisoned inertia. I feel like John McCain at the Hanoi Hilton...but without the torture...or bad food...or lack of a controlled indoor climate...or other horrid living conditions, etc... Have I taken on some mental illness that requires me to be "confused?" Do I need to go to Confuse-A-Cat Ltd.???
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