So here we are at Friday again. Somehow, through either luck or good management we've found our way here to the shiny-end of the week.
If you want to take a moment to thank whichever deity or iPhone app helped you do that, go right ahead.
For me this week has been a bit of a struggle for a couple of reasons.
First, there's my strong aversion to being cold which sadly has been a bit unavoidable what with the weather being so seasonally appropriate.
Then there's the fact that there's some European sports competition on at the moment that compells the Silver Fox to get up before 4am (as if it's not bad enough that there's local sports I have to avoid, sport on the other side of the planet is asserting itself too! The cheek).
And then there was some broken sleep in the middle of the week from earthquakes in the 2am to 3am area or what I like to think of as the "I'm too old for this crap" witching hour. It holds as true for nightclubs and parties as it does for 4.2 aftershocks. It's your call as to whether you prefer to be shaken awake by the earth or a taxi driver who wants to be paid but let's just accept that it's not fun to do either of those things.
But also, I've been plagued by the face of doom for the last week. Something I saw last week that made me question many things. It's furry and it makes me sad and confused about life. Allow me to introduce you to the source of my existential angst, the dead cat chopper.
For those of you who did not see it and can't, for some unfathomable reason, be bothered clicking on the link I've so handily supplied for you, Dutch artist Bart Jansen didn't bury his cat after it was hit by a car, he stuffed it and by adding propellers to each paw, turned it into a remote control chopper.
And it freaks me out.
Lots of people in the last week have posted it via their Facebook or Twitter accounts and seem to find it funny. They're allowed to. I don't have any issue with that, in fact, I wish it made me laugh. Instead, when faced with the stuffed chopper cat, I can't help looking at it's wee face and thinking it's emitting a silent scream. If this thing were a painting it would be Salvador Dali meets Edvard Munch.
Every time I look at it I think: "Oh God, I'm going to die, aren't I?"
I can't help thinking that chopper cat has something to teach me about the futility and awkward tragi-comedy that is life. Do you laugh at the prospect of your own mortality or become depressed by it? I'm leaning towards the latter, though I'd very much like to be the kind of person who sees chopper cat and says: "Ridiculous! And so is life! I care not!." Maybe that's something for me to work on over the weekend.
Still, at least there is little chance that I will be memorialised in such a way. I cannot imagine that my humble carcass would be flight-worthy as I would certainly have a tendency to tip forward. And that spreadeagled pose is not what one would call elegant or flattering. No, no reinvention as a remote controlled chopper for me, I think.
Perhaps I'm just in a sombre, wintry mood... What is your reaction to chopper cat? Enchanted or angst-ridden? Is it funny-ha-ha or funny-peculiar or a bit of both?
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