The Fat Cat Theory

june twelfth

Hey Fat Cat,
Okay, I really don't want to begin with "dear" because that's what all the old people do, and I'm not even old or getting creaky in the joints. I'm just a fifteen year old male who needs counseling from a therapist who eats pot-pies on a daily basis.

Nothing unusual.

And I'm not about to call you "diary", or "journal", either, because that's for prissies.

You're Fat Cat. Because I hate Fat Cats (or skinny cats, for that matter). I just hate how content and loved they look, sitting on the window-panes of florists'. Why can't I be loved like that, or appreciated.

Everyone just thinks I'm a speck of dust; an irritating speck, that they can just brush away later, and not care when I float away and slowly cease to exist.

Today I took a walk through Central Park and it was like I was invisible for a while. Everyone else was bundled up from the cold, mothers fussing over their kids, teens glomped together in groups of threes and fours and fives, coupled with scarves round their necks and hot chocolate steaming in their hands. And I was there alone, for two hours, just me and this stupid journal writing project and a tumbler of water.

But later on, somebody noticed me. It was getting a bit dark; the skies were overcast, and somebody saw me. Asked if I was alright, mate, and even gave me one of his mitts. And later, because my left uncovered hand looked really raw and red, he passed me the other mitt. And we sat there in some kind of companionable silence, just drinking in the sights of there together, when we were there alone.

And I finally mustered up the courage to reply to a question, for the first time in months. He asked whether I'd like a hot dog from a stall nearby, and I said no and his grin faltered. Why, he'd asked, and I shrugged and thought to myself, you wouldn't be buying me hot dogs when the officers find my body in a month. But he walked off anyway, to get himself one, and I sighed 'cause I thought that he was getting bored of me. But here's the funny thing: he came back.

Sincerely,
Jaxon