During the first couple of weeks in my cocoon, I was a walking nervous breakdown: There was nothing to distract me from all of the stupid things I’d done to get in my own way, which was an overwhelming epiphany.
While I hope everyone seriously considers adopting their next pet from a shelter, no one talks about how difficult it can be to raise a shelter pet or a pet that is the product of an abusive previous home life.
I have spent the past several days giving food to a cat that doesn’t want it, and on the scale of difficulty, this ranks somewhere between assembling a different IKEA desk once every hour or so all day long, and performing brain surgery on yourself.
My family fantasy centered around me, a feminist dude partner, and two adopted daughters that I could call Mary and Margot after my favorite lady monarchs. Our home would ooze estrogen and empowered ladyhood.