Last week, I was walking home when I saw a cat playing with a mouse. I stopped, and the cat scolded me and leapt away. The mouse fled to my foot's protection, then ran up my leg to the end of my jacket. I picked it up and it sat in my hand as I carried it a block or so away. Then it raced up my arm and disappeared over my shoulder.
A block or so later (and yes my walks home are long enough that I measure them without minutes), I saw a bee on the ground. It was just barely alive, so I coaxed it onto a leaf and then carried it to the first black-eyed Susan I could find. Everything deserves to die well.
I don't know. It seems that I live differently from a lot of people in the sense that those moments made me really happy. In a way that sometimes other people can't. Maybe I'm more childish than most people. It's a little hard sometimes.
I hate seeing people get frustrated with me. I hate knowing I lost control and did or said something really stupid or annoying. I'm still not used to a lot of the things that go along with being with people, and I think I overcompensate.
Speaking of which, things are getting bad at home. I feel a little like the bee.
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