I didn’t think I would ever be writing another one of these but for some reason, people always ask me about this column, and I didn’t have anything else to do for this issue. 

Since we last spoke, my life has changed quite a bit. I’m in my final year, cut bangs again, decided to make the leap to BC next year to recover from my undergraduate, realized that I didn’t like my major as much as I thought I did, then changed my mind, and changed it again.

Gator, on the other hand, has gained an undetermined amount of pounds (so I hear). My beloved cat is back at my mother’s house for the time being after spending majority of the summer in the Borough when my mother’s basement flooded. Times were had, memories were made, and I began to fear the inevitable in all life on earth: the end. 

He’s fine, let me make that perfectly clear.

But the reality of humans and animals is that one day, we will all die. It’s sad, and I don’t know what I will do with myself when this time comes. Thinking about Gator and how seven is still young, but it’s not that young in cat years is another staple worry in my brain that prevents sleep on the regular. 

The other night it was how unprepared I am for an unexpected bear encounter. 

I am also trying to get anxiety medication (unsurprising). And by trying, I mean I’ve told my boyfriend twice a week for months that I want to try meds, but haven’t done anything besides verbalize this ad nauseam. 

I worry about a lot of things. Gator mostly. My family when they’re driving, which forced me to monitor a certain scanner feed on Facebook (sorry) to see if any accidents were reported. I worry about falling behind in university, and ruminate on the time I’ve sacrificed from my degree to work on Arthur.

I worry I will never find a job as fun as this, and I worry about wishing to move on sooner than this adventure is over. If ever I find a job where I am paid to write a column about my fat cat, then I will hereby order a retraction on this column.

I worry about being 12 books behind my Goodreads reading challenge. 

Being in your twenties means hearing a lot of “this is just life in your twenties”, “relax, nobody knows what they’re doing”, and “this is the time to just figure things out!” I know this is all true. I know that 21 is extremely young, and by that measure, my life has only recently begun. 

It is difficult to place yourself in a category when your high school graduating class is split up between 

‍

1) felons 

2) parents

3) students

4) influencers  

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To say that this is the time to “figure shit out” is an understatement. I’m neither a parent*, felon, influencer, and sometimes it feels like I am half a student half person who wanders campus feeling like a fraud. Humans are obsessed with labels and categories and it overwhelms me to think about my path in life and wonder about where I could have been, and stress about every choice in the context of “right” or “wrong.”

It’s impossible to relax. I’ve tried, many times. 

The combination of extreme procrastination and heightened anxiety makes my Real Housewives of Salt Lake City binge extremely unenjoyable. I’m playing a lot of academic catch up this late in December because of a little blip in my September schedule where I was forced (not by my hand) to take a break.

I had a very tiny tumour removed from my ovary and found out I didn’t actually have endometriosis like I was told I did for years. 

It was very strange to discover—high off my brain on morphine—that I did not have a chronic disease which hinders my ability to one day bear children, but I had a relatively minor tumour in my body for years, and still no answer to the years of pain I suffered. 

Months recovered and three gross scars later and I’m still having a hard time with this, for some reason.

I’ve had requests to make this column “more fun” and fictionalized about my fuzzy boy, but that would just seem disingenuous. At least, in this moment in time. I don’t really have much to joke about, and I certainly do not have room in my brain to flex my creative muscle. It’s December, and Evan and I have worked ourselves to the bone, and I have five final papers waiting for me after this column.

Though I can’t entertain you at this moment, I can tell you all what Gator did to entertain me when I was home in September.

For starters, he tried to make biscuits on my stomach directly after my surgery, which hurt like a bitch. He knocked over my bottle or morphine and kicked it around the basement floor when I rotted on the couch watching certain house wives of a certain Mormon state. 

Whenever my boyfriend would come join Gator, Jen Shah, and I as I drank orange juice and hallucinated someone calling my name, my proverbial son would abandon me for the arms of … a man. 

Gay! He is so cute and gay and I love him dearly (and my boyfriend too). Gator also kept me company while I cried about school, and being in pain, and feeling guilty about both. He misses me when I’m not there, and I supposed our anxious attachment to each other grew when I was home recovering since he would scream outside the bathroom while I showered.

Then I would lay back on the couch and he would either knock my phone out of my hand to lick my face, or abandon me again for my boyfriend.

Who can blame him?

At long last I am returning home whenever this print edition is finalized, and I can feel the bond between me and my baby tugging each day. He might miss me when I’m gone, but I miss him more, as evident in a column I’ve immortalized in his name.

To Arthur journalist Ian Vansegbrook whose face lit up when I mentioned reviving this column during our weekly Story Meeting, I make no promise to write another.