Look what I did:

Okay, technically, it’s what my sister did. She called me and said she had this adorable homeless kitten, and she wanted to keep her but she couldn’t, because her fiance nixed the idea due to their small apartment and rapidly growing dog. So she insisted I was the next best home for her, and told me to think it over.

Admittedly, I didn’t do a lot of thinking on the matter. I’ve been wanting a pet for a long time, and avoiding commitment only because my apartment requires a hefty security deposit. But faced with the fate of an innocent animal, I caved like quicksand. I called H the next morning and told her to bring the kitty at the next opportunity.

I named her Luna, after the dark moon. H insisted that black cats are special, and everyone knows they’re at least a little bit magical, and so the kitten should obviously have a magical name. And to be honest, I didn’t argue, because let’s face it – I agree with her. Of course, we’re the type of people who look for magic wherever we can find it. I love that about us.

As for Luna, she’s just as cute, and just as evil, as she looks in the photos. She’s unexpectedly sweet – she follows me all over the house, curling up at my feet when I do the dishes or put makeup on. She’s very vocal; she meows like a little siren when I leave the room and she hasn’t figured out where I’ve gone to. She eats like a full-grown cow, and as a result, she’s really dainty with a round, barrel-like belly. She also has huge, mutant ears (see photo for verification).

She’s totally evil at night. I sleep at night, and Luna is up with the moon. She races around, playful and giddy (and likely suffering from the energizer bunny syndrome after stuffing her face all day). When I’m not responsive, because I know I have to work in the morning and I don’t want to be be a bleary-eyed zombie, she attacks me. A few nights ago, when nibbling on my toes and chewing on my hair wasn’t working, she took a BIG bite out of my butt. I’m not kidding. I woke UP from a fairly sound sleep to teeth sinking into my backside, and I jumped about a foot and squealed and immediately chased her down and locked her out of the room, because god help me, I am not a happy camper on three hours of sleep. I think I might still have a mark.

But overall, I owe H thanks, because I love Luna. It’s nice to come home to cuddle an excitable little fur ball, even if she does take chunks out of my butt and kick her kitty litter all over the bathroom floor.

My friend K finally got the chance to take pictures of the damage from the shootings with her jazzed up digital camera (ah, to own a Nikon, I might be persuaded to sell my soul). So, without further ado, I give you:

This is the office window that I usually sit directly in front of, and, without fail…I was perched in the way of that bullet on the morning of the 28th.

That’s a close-up of the same shot. Eee!

And lastly, those are the two holes in the other street-facing window, a little bit east of where I was (at that point, cowering on the floor, preparing to suck my thumb and beg for mercy simultaneously).

So. I’ve been doing my best to be light-hearted – and in severe denial – about the entire event, but the cops keep reminding me about writing witness statements and the near-certainty that I’ll end up testifying in court, and to be honest it’s all been wearing on me. I’m trying to be brave, and I’ve gotten more than one comment that I did well under pressure, but I’ve been losing a lot of sleep, and my appetite (formerly of the burgers/fries/shakes/candy/OH PLEASE variety) has dwindled to pretty much nothing. I have to force myself to eat, and go to work, and even get up in the morning. And my biggest fear right now is testifying.

(Deep breath here). As a little girl, I was raped by an uncle, and forced to ‘testify’ in court, which entailed repeating every horrifying detail to the people listening – I don’t remember who was there anymore. But I was tight-lipped and ashamed, and so they kept prodding me, and the entire experience led to my being severely shy for most of my childhood. Of course, I assumed that I’d gotten past it, until I had to testify about a car accident I’d been in with a friend a few years ago. I got on the stand and burbled and shook and became instantly covered in a sheen of sweat, and I ended up not recalling a single word I’d uttered, except that K and T were there to tell me I sounded incredibly sick with nerves and incredibly GUILTY. So much for my testimony being helpful.

Which leads me to my current phobia of getting on a stand in front of a room full of strangers and being questioned and cross-examined and ultimately BADGERED for pertinent information. What good can possibly come of it? Granted, it’ll likely be months before any kind of trial is scheduled, but that’s even worse, because it’s delaying my desperation to GET ON WITH MY LIFE.

But, all bitching aside, I’m lucky to be alive, and very grateful to have supportive friends and family who will bodily drag me to the courtroom and force me to do my civic duty.