i’m tired.

i’m tired of a reeking, full litterbox in my bedroom closet. i’m tired of running the dehumidifier frequently because she needs to take a shower every single day. i’m tired of finding pieces of litter in my bed. i’m tired of spot vacuuming every single day to clear the moldy kibble, litter and dried chunks of vomit off the carpet. i’m tired of hearing the cat howl (in pain or confusion, i’m not sure) at 4AM. i’m tired of half-finished projects and unorganized clutter in my house: on my antique eastlake desk, the kitchen table, the downstairs hallway. i’m tired of looking at it.

i’m tired of the meltdowns over changed plans, i’m tired of sitting in the corner quietly until her mood changes. i’m tired of loaning her money. i’m tired of trying to battle through her inability to handle working with the public and life’s inevitable unfairness. i’m tired of the emotional debris strewn across my little apartment.

i’m tired.