Three days ago, the youngest of my two cats, who is fourteen years old or so, started breathing weirdly, in a phlegm-y way. When I put my hand on his chest, it vibrated as he breathed. I hoped that it would pass on its own, but it was clearly getting worse.

I’m on vacation for a few more days (although I’ve done fuck-all of consequence, other than programming, playing the guitar, playing VR games, and masturbating), so I took the little guy to the vet. The X-rays didn’t show anything. They injected him with a corticosteroid, and told me that I’ll have to somehow make him swallow the same thing in pill form for the upcoming seven days. The vet, a nice-seeming younger woman, told me that the corticosteroid is mainly for relief, because the real cause is likely a polyp or a mass, and at his age, it will likely not be operable. If things don’t improve in the next few days, I’ll have to bring him to a proper clinic in Donostia, thirty kilometers away, so they can perform a CT scan and similar stuff.

He’s dying. I’ve already lost three cats and it haunts me weekly. I’m way too sensitive to handle the deaths of these little creatures that I’ve loved for years. To begin with, people having pets is insane; just a replacement for the biological urge of having children. It’s clear to me that nobody should raise any living being that’s unlikely to outlast them. I’ve loved my cats, but when I look back, I don’t store any memory of my dead pets that isn’t tainted by the fact that they died. In the case of two of them, also of how they died.

I can’t take this shit. The only relief that I get from my brain bombarding me with intrusive pains is when I’m playing the guitar, when I’m lost in a very engaging experience like a VR game, or jerking off. When any of those distractions ends, the flood returns, and I have to wade through everything painful that my brain refuses to let go of. The number of those private pains only grows as I get older. I suspect that due to the peculiar configuration that my neurons settled on shortly after birth thanks to the autism-related atypical pruning, memory-wise, my brain is a machine made to discard every good experience and etch in stone every bad one. Over the years, I’ve grown wary of attempting things, talking to people, etc., because I know I’ll just be adding more shit to the pile. A classical sign, I suppose, of Pure Obsessional OCD. I don’t know for how long I’ll be able to stand this.

For the last few months or so, I’ve avoided going outside other than to work, to buy whatever needed buying, and to play the guitar, and I play the guitar in the woods, so the population and general demographics are unlike what can be found in the rest of society. But today I had to bring my cat in a carrying case to a nearby clinic, where they refused to take him in due to overwork, so I had to take a bus downtown. Society has turned into such a horrid zoo. I don’t understand how people can look around and think that everything is fine, unless you’re one of the people who are benefiting from it. And us Europeans are the ones losing everything.

I remember my maternal grandfather, who fought on Franco’s side. In the decades after, particularly during the last twenty or so years of his life, he went out as little a possible, because “out there, there’s only weird people.” If he had lived through the current ethnic cleansing, he would have killed himself. I’m no christian (the Roman Empire adopting Christianity was the biggest humiliation ritual imaginable, and we’ve been paying for it ever since. See recent examples of Trump, Mr. “America First”, groveling up to the “chosen people”), so I can’t support Franco such religious grounds, but those fucking communists had it coming. Regarding the christian thing, read Catherine Nixey’s The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World. In summary, how could I look forward to anything in society when everything is deliberately going the wrong way, and it’s only going to get worse? I’m just glad that I won’t bring children to this disaster.

My cat is walking around, climbing furniture, and eating a bit, but he’s still breathing weird. Almost guaranteed, this is the decline that will end in his death. I suppose he has lived long enough. I doubt that his life has been particularly happy, given neuroses like overeating whenever he has the chance even though he pukes afterwards. But what can you do. I can’t even give myself a happy life.