What can you expect of a day that begins with getting up in the morning?

103 words. Just now. Fat lot of good that does anyone; I don't even know if they're the right words. Piffle.

Lennon's sick. (teinedreugan, this is your first-order reminder to call the vet.)

I'm not doing so hot myself. Stupid damn guts.


It's hard not to be consumed with pointlessness, distracted by anything other than what I ought to be doing. Those impulses of self-immolation surface again, licking at the inside of my skin; I could be doing better. I should be doing better.

My fault, my failings; burn, burn, burn.

Helpless-hopeless-useless.

Burn.


[ Editorial note: Bonfire's being polite enough to share front. We let him write. Part of the consumption of pointlessness was getting him a user icon, anyway. ]

[ Song output oddly ironic. ]

[ Stormy addendum: Rar! Let me *snarlteeth* post this damned entry. Maintenance. *manyteeth* ]

[ Addendum addendum: fuckitgoingtobed. Game over, try again later. ]

Fretfretfretfretfret. . . .

Lennon's really sick.

He has up moments and down moments. On the up moments he slouches around the house like a thing out of Yeats, exuding furry misery. Down moments I find him lying on his side in the bathtub, barely breathing.

Most of the time he sort of sits there, not in a comfortable loaf, but in this sort of dejected and drooping lump of black. Occasionally he emits a thin, pained wail.

I wish he'd just YOW YOW YOW. Then I'd know he's okay.

If I put water next to him, he's interested, and sometimes he'll drink a little. Most of the rest of the time he sort of sits there with the tip of his chin fur in the water, thinking about it hard.

He's not interested in food; he slouched off when I offered him tuna. (Then Arthur nicked it.) I wish I could do something better. I also wish that the smell of tuna didn't make me feel violently ill, but that's been tidied up.

Hour and a half until he's expected at the vet.

Fretfret. . .


*finds the userpic with Lennon in*

O Bast.

O Bast.

They're prepping him for surgery now. Diagnosis: string.

The vet says the vomiting isn't a good sign, but the fact that he's been moving around is a good sign.

And that he doesn't know what the chances are overall. He may be all right. He . . . may not. The vet doesn't know what to tell me.


O Bast.

I'm going to go do Rite and make offerings and pray really hard.

Lennon Update Status Report

He pulled through the surgery all right.

They didn't find any serious damage. None of his guts were cut, and there wasn't any major inflammation. We have a few days to fret; there may be complications, either from the string or from the surgery.

They'll call us in the morning with a status update and more detailed prognosis, but as it looks at the moment, it seems like he's probably going to be okay.

Thank you, everyone, who sent prayers and good thoughts.

He's probably going to be okay.