Diego

My cat's name is Diego.  If I'm honest, he's not my cat.  He's my brother's cat.  Well, he's my parents' cat.  My brother moved out and didn't take Diego with him because my parents, my father especially, had grown so fond of him.  All the same, I love Diego.  I wish he'd friggin let me pick him up (he doesn't like being held... at all... by anyone... ever), but I still love him.

I have nothing terribly important to say here except that no writer or artist should live alone.  I don't entirely mean that, of course.  I love being alone, think best when I'm alone, connect with God more closely when I'm alone, am most productive when alone, and imagine that many other people agree with me.  Some of us can get by living with ourselves, as if we were two people--not in a schizophrenic way, though I suppose that would work, but as if we were living outside of ourselves.  I don't suggest that.  I suggest instead, if we do not want to or cannot find someone else to live with, the presence of a cat.

My friend Alexandra is allergic to cats and I am deeply sorry.  She's missing out.  If I were to try to write without Diego, though, I'd be lost.  Seriously.  My girlfriend's cat is the same, even if he does scratch at my notebooks and things and gets on my nerves.

In sum, Diego rules.  That is all.