We finally got the opening shot to the last Cell Phone Monologue last night. The sun shined, the rain stopped, the dolly worked, and we nailed it. My gout had passed (after taking Colchicine 3 times, and a few percocet for pain). I tried to motion track my titles in and I keep hitting a wall. I can crack it, this just takes time. Maybe soon I’ll be able to knock that out. I have deep thoughts sometimes. I prefer to keep them to myself primarily. There are those precious few I might share them with. Lately, I contemplate ideas like fate, karma, God, and the meaning of my own life. I don’t know if I’ve come up with any answers. I just know that I am not afraid and I have found comfort in my contemplations.

I haven’t updated much about the boys of Rossdonia, aka my cats. Vladimir Jack Bauer is just plain cranky all the time. He gets tired, then becomes a furry fat ball of love. And he snores. Loudly, I might add. There is someone out there who would think this is sweet, sweet revenge because I allegedly snore. I have no empirical evidence of such, so I think it’s a vicious lie, but regardless, I am sometimes awoken by the snores of an oversized fat cat.

Little Lorenzo Lamas Jones has grown physically, but mentally he is still very much the tiny kitten I first brought home. He still plays every single day, and acts completely silly. I find sometimes that I stop whatever I’m doing to lay on the floor and pet him. I can sit there for 20 minutes listening to him purr and rub his little belly as he stretches and claws gently at the carpet.

They say that cat purring has genuine medical benefits, as in it calms the heart rate, the vibrations of the purr are at the kHtz that help with blood flow and relieve stress. I kind of hope this ludicrous idea is true.

Okay, so maybe my health situation is worse than I thought. The past few days of bleeding profusely from MRSA wasn’t the most fun. Maybe this is the universe’s way of forcing me to empathize with women and menstruation. I never should have laughed at that South Park joke, the one where someone said “I don’t trust anything that bleeds for 3 days and doesn’t die“. I know I chuckled at that, but do I really need to lose a pint of blood every few months as penance?

Maybe it’s denial, maybe it’s faith, maybe it’s malaise, or maybe some odd form of contentment, but I feel okay with whatever life has in store for me. Knowing God’s sense of humor thus far, I’m willing to be she’s got a long life of suffering waiting for me.

By my own hand, I’d wager.

Categories: blog

Peter John Ross

A filmmaker, a dreamer, and the world's only Dan Akroyd Cosplayer


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