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I don’t know if this applies to all cats, but Whiskey won’t eat more than she needs to eat. She’s got better self-control than most humans at a buffet. I measure out her food by instinct. A sprinkle here, a handful there. Keep in mind, she’s still a kitten, which means she has two modes: Olympic gymnast and professional napper. If I fill her bowl too full in the morning, she doesn’t go wild on it. Instead, she leaves a perfect little ring of food around the edge, like a cereal crop circle, saving it for later. Same thing at...

So this morning Whiskey woke me up a little earlier than planned. I’m a grump sleeper. A professional-level grump. But this kitten has no respect for sleep unions or snooze buttons. If I’m not up and ready on her schedule, she turns into a tiny motivational coach armed with licking and gentle biting. Resistance is futile. You don’t wake up to an alarm anymore. You wake up to a creature with whiskers and a mission. After surviving the feline boot camp, Mom and I headed to storage to pick up some books for my exhibition this week. I’m participating in...

Whiskey moves like she’s auditioning for an invisible kung fu epic. One second she’s a puddle of fur. The next, she’s a blur. She circles. She swoons. She vanishes behind furniture and reappears mid-air with a tiny “hi-yah,” landing a soft nibble on my arm like a feathered punchline. If Bruce Lee ever needed a stunt double with whiskers, I know a girl. Some days I wonder how much more of this acrobatic affection I can take. My forearms look like they’ve been sparring with a cloud that learned self-defense. But then she pauses. Those big eyes flip the script....

I woke up this morning with Whiskey Kitty sleeping on my cheek so close I couldn’t tell if I was breathing in oxygen or kitten carbon dioxide. Either way, I survived the night. If I pass out one day, they’ll say it wasn’t cigarettes that did me in, it was feline fumes. Mom and I went out to get the phone fixed, but no luck. The kind of errand that feels productive until it isn’t. I asked her if we could swing by Guitar Center, and she gently reminded me she’s not buying me a guitar. Fair enough. I could...

Today I went to the clinic to get my meds refilled and check in with my therapist. I decided to be honest and told him I had slipped by smoking a little pot. His response caught me off guard. He said, “That’s okay, I do it too.” Not exactly the wisdom I was expecting. Helpful? I’m not so sure. For me, marijuana is complicated. I don’t avoid it because I buy into scare tactics or old slogans. I avoid it because I know how it affects my mental health. I feel the shift when I use it. So when my...