Miss Moe

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This is my baby girl, Rinna. Also known as Moe. Or Momo. Himalayan or Ragdoll, she’s a gorgeous little stinker. Also incredibly skittish. I got her for my nineteenth birthday, because there were a lot of mice in our house, and the cats we had were too lazy to go after them. Of course, when I saw her picture, I thought she was adorable. But it wasn’t really until I met her—and saw her cowering in the back of a cage and hissing, that I fell in love. Because she reminded me of myself, and I immediately felt the need to protect her. The first time I held her, she was shaking like a leaf. But she stayed in my lap all the way home, where she proceeded to hide under my bookcase.

I could not think of a name for the little poop to save my life, so I started off calling her Bob, but then it became Moe, after Moe of The Three Stooges. Naturally, that became Momo, because her coloring is like Momo from Avatar The Last Airbender.

See the resemblance?

Anyway, my new kitten had a couple of knots in the fur of her neck. So I pulled her out from under the bookcase, sat her in my lap, and cut them out. Imagine my surprise when she started purring. SO CUTE!

In short, getting Moe to be less scared has been a long journey. She has her safe places, under my bed, on my bed, or under one of my roommates’ beds. And she’s still pretty scared if someone raises their voice too much. But I hope being my cat has been good for her. I know it’s been a good experience for me, because I can’t treat her in the dismissive way I treated cats as a kid. I can’t get in a rage around her. In her own way, she’s making me a better person. And I love her for that.

Besides, look how cute she is!IMG_20131116_173023_466

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Musings on Horror (Sinister 2 spoilers abound!)

Did I say spoilers? Yes, yes, I did. Ye be warned.

So,

HOLY HORROR MOVIE EXCELLENCE!

I got to see Sinister 2 tonight with one of my roommates, who also loves horror movies. (Guys, it’s good to have a friend who works at the local theater.)

And I’ve never been so scared by a horror movie, in all honesty.

WHAT? ME?

Yes. I was terrified. And these were the scenes that aren’t the boogeyman and his army of creepy children.

It’s horrific not because of any of that. It’s a woman on the run from her abusive husband, taking her twin boys with her. One of whom was beat up by his father.

AND THE EMOTIONAL COMPLICATIONS!

Dylan, the one who was Daddy’s punching bag, is a quiet, scared kid. His brother Zach is the one who’s more like Daddy, starting so innocently with pushing and name calling. Dylan is the one chosen by the evil army of undead children, but Zach can see them, too, and he’s jealous. Even more, he knows he’s better than his weak brother, so he can’t understand why they picked the “pussy.”

Only one small piece of the horror revolves around Dylan being forced to watch the homemade snuff films with his sadistic new friends, while the evil child-eating thing lurks in the background. The main horror is domestic abuse victims trying to escape the abuser. He hires private detectives to track them down. He drives up to the front door with cops, unaware of Dylan inside, hiding under a bed.

It’s also in Zach, who lets his jealousy get the better of him, and beats up Dylan. Who is far too much his father’s son—Round Two just waiting to happen. He takes up the mantle of “filming” that Dylan doesn’t want.

It’s also in the mother, herself. A woman who finally did something to protect Dylan, but not soon enough. A woman who has no choice but to watch Zach become like his father.

This bastard father regains legal custody of the twins, and their mother has to come along for the ride if she wants to stay with them. That’s the real horror—being forced back into that. Having to wait to eat until Daddy starts eating. Jumping when he shouts.

That dinner scene was the worst of it for me. Seeing that awful silence at the table. And, when Dylan says he isn’t hungry, his father picks up a handful of mashed potatoes and shoves them in his face.

It wasn’t the blood, gore, or violence I flinched away from. It was that one moment. That one moment horrified me more than any horror movie has ever done. It was raw, primal emotion. Breaking me down to the things every horror movie tries to do. I couldn’t help caring about the family, and wanting the best for them. Biting my nails in nervousness that they would be killed.

And also, we have Deputy So and So coming back, getting involved with this family. The perfect adorkable hero. What’s not to love?

In short, I think this movie will sucker punch abuse victims. Personally, I loved it. Almost like cutting, horror makes me feel. During a horror movie, I realize that I’m alive. And I’m grateful for that fact. That I can leave this world of dismal darkness and gray color schemes behind, and go out into vibrant colors and sunshine. But horror isn’t for everyone. Especially not Sinister 2.

But, in Mac’s list, it might just have made the Top 10. Heck, Top 3? Top 1? Just maybe.

My Mom thinks I Sold My Soul for Rock ‘N’ Roll

We all know that rock music is pretty awesome, right? I hope so. If not, you live in a sad, sad world trapped under an entirely different kind of rock. Poor soul.

I went to my first rock concert with my daddy when I was fourteen. Def Leppard. And it was friggin’ sweet. One of the things that was really great was that even though my mom didn’t approve and tried to stop me from going, she didn’t succeed, and I came back with a t-shirt.

The next day, of course, I got lectured about the evils of rock music. Because I was proudly wearing my new shirt (with the Hysteria logo on the front).

Def Leppard: Hysteria

Freaky, right?

We got in quite the argument over my evil music and evil shirt, but this time, I wasn’t about to be sorry. She was the one who let me go. This scuffle got to quite a high point. My mother grabbed me by the collar, pulling me up to her.

Of course, I was terrified, but I wasn’t about to show that. Instead, I just grinned at her. She muttered something about me looking so proud of myself, and walked away.

My first point in the game.

She’s tried to “lose” that shirt in the laundry, but I’ve always made sure to find it again. After all, she already lost my dad’s vintage shirt with the same logo. I wasn’t about to let her lose mine.

And since then, yes, I’ve been to other concerts, slowly getting heavier and heavier, and I’ve gotten t-shirts from most of them. And oh, how I love them! I shove it in the face of my mother and aunt at every opportunity. I am the devil child. I wear black, though it is depressing to those two, band t-shirts, and eyeliner. HORROR!

I went to a rock festival a few months ago, and had the time of my life, bringing my sister who’d never been to a real rock concert before. I like to think it was really good for both of us.

I can’t even begin to describe the feeling a rock concert gives me. Such freedom from the stifling, stuffy childhood I had. Not just that, but everything. It’s nice to just stop worrying, for once, and lose yourself in the energy of the crowd.

When you imagine a typical teenage rebellious stage, you imagine black, piercings and screeching rock, right? Not me. My rebellion was around ten or eleven. It’s called country music. One of the quickest ways to piss off my Daddy.

Most people I meet often find something to like about my taste of music. Particularly my current coworkers, who seem so shocked to hear me listening to classic rock and metal. I tell them the same thing every time—my dad raised me right!