Has absolutely no effect on my life. I understand that. In the last three days, two famous (in my circle) cats have died, including the one I wrote Kittens at Midnight for (RIP Fand, cross that Rainbow Bridge knowing you were much loved, however briefly) and George, the 23 year old therapy cat Catherine inherited from her mother (who didn’t learn he was a therapy cat until he was over 20 and learned a completely new routine, including being transported by transit in a box to and from, getting out and saying hi to all the dying cancer patients, getting back in and going home and then eating practically anything Catherine cooked, which list grew to be so long and so humorous it could be its own children’s book). Tom S. lost his car keys so he couldn’t go to OVFF. Alexander has a cold so bad he can’t travel and be the secret guest at Auntie Mary’s Eightieth Birthday Bash. The awning blew itself to ratshit, Ottawa was locked down while Harper cowered in a closet (as would I, candidly and without prejudice), a switch in the network verklemmt itself, my shoulder has been aching worse than at any point since I broke it and I feel like I’m limping along though life on the mitochondrial equivalent of impulse power. The only good thing about the last 4 days has been the Harry Potter 8 movie rewatch.
All of which has precisely nothing to do with mythical beings or actual planets.
But if I ever see that bastard Mercury, I’m gonna give him one sharp punch in the snoot.
