At some point in May, or June, when my psychologist and I are discussing my chronic perfectionism and fear of, uh, fucking shit up, I find myself telling her that I've been thinking of fostering a cat. I've been thinking about it for — I don't know, years — and I've kept talking myself out of it,
because I cannot persuade myself that I am fit to be a cat parent. My living arrangements and current lifestyle are wrong, I tell myself. My aunt’s cat, in Hong Kong, fucking hates my guts, which may be a sign that I am simply repulsive to feline sensibilities. I did not grow up with animals, save a brief period with a guinea pig and an even briefer one with goldfish — so perhaps I am simply taking it for granted that a love of silly cat videos will translate into a love of real, furry, bitey, scratchy, menace cats. I cannot, in good conscience, make a commitment to a life, a living being, that will depend upon me for all things,
when I am barely able to keep myself alive.