Day 250

Today marks a quarter of a thousand entries in this experiment. It is perhaps not fair to dismiss it as an experiment any longer considering the length of time I've been doing it. It is not a full blown phenomenon for me--something that helps give my life meaning. I am a sheltered, introverted person who very seldom expresses himself to others. I have little to no social interaction with other human beings but in the past that's always been okay because for the most part I'm happy being alone. Being around other people makes me nervous and agitated, at least when it happens for long periods of time. It's probably part of the reason I've been unhappy in the jobs I've held down, although I won't lie that laziness certainly plays a factor as well.

All of that is irrelevant though, at least for the time being. I'm writing this entry because I write one every day, but today. . . something bad has happened. I am an introvert and have discussed that length throughout the history of this blog. The topics I obsessively tackle on a daily basis go a long way in confirming that. That is not to say that I don't crave companionship--and several months ago, I got just that. I've been broke for a long time so I've never had the opportunity to own a pet of my own. I'm taking are of my mother's dogs but I've just never connected with dogs as much as I do with cats. So it was that when my mother brought me a cat one day out of the blue, I was overjoyed.

I spent a lot of time with that cat over the months. He was my little pal. He'd hang out with me while I was playing games and often sleep in my bed with me. I've always been a cat person. When I lived with my ex-girlfriend, we had a couple of cats that I love and miss to this day when she took them away after we split. But this was different. This was my cat. I was responsible for him. He came with a name but I ignored it. My reasoning was that cats habitually ignored the names they'd been given so why should I bother calling him anything? He was a cat, so I called him Cat. Eventually though, as I grew more and more attached to that cat, I did eventually give him a name. I named him after a character from a book I was reading. I named him Wataya. Still, I rarely called him by his name. It seemed pointless. I knew his name and that was good enough for me.

Wataya always went a long way in cheering me up. It's no secret that I'm not pleased with the way I live. I suffer from complacency, but it doesn't mean I'm in complete denial. I have no money and very few friends--none of which I ever see in person. That cat was always around when I needed him. He kept me company and whether or not he felt affection for me or not--he needed me. I was the only thing in that cat's life. He depended on me. I'm sorry that his life had to be so short.

I found Wataya this morning. He was dead. I'd been worried about him for days because he refused to eat anything. I tried to force him to eat but it was no use. I knew something was wrong. He was losing weight. I could feel his bones and his coat was matted. He was in poor shape and I didn't know what to do. I had no money and no hope. I had to watch him slowly starve to death. I don't know what was wrong with him. It's possible his kidneys failed. I'm not an expert on feline health so maybe I shouldn't have owned a cat in the first place. In retrospect it was irresponsible of my mother to gift a cat to a broke and historically irresponsible manchild. I think she could tell, though. How much I needed that cat. How much I still need that cat now that he's gone.