I look in the mirror and I don't recognize myself.

A lot of it has to do with the short hair, but there's also something else, something I can't quite put my finger on.

It could be that I'm doomed, and this is the face of someone who is no longer a Christian, no longer walking the right path, and it's something spiritual that I'm sensing.

I'm more inclined to think, however, that there's an odd look of maturity on my face.

I look at myself, and I think...she doesn't look naive and afraid anymore.

Maybe it's a look of determination. Of having lost so much and been so beaten down that I'm sick of it, and ready to move on, move out, finally get my own and live my own life.

I'm not sure.

On the inside, I still sometimes quake with fear. The idea of getting my own place is scary, especially when there are people trying to convince me to jump into things before I'm ready.

What's the catalyst, you might ask?

My father gave me an ultimatum, and it motivated me to give away my cats (temporarily). The thing is, he thinks I've given them away for good. He has no idea where they went, nor does he care. He's going about his life singing and playing music and making smoothies and putting his shoe rack where their litter box used to be.

I hate him for this.

But I also don't want to hate him. It just hurts how oblivious he is to my pain.

It's fine, though. Such appears to be life. He can be happy now, no cats to put fur on his clothes, or to meow in the middle of the night, or to come running to greet him when they hear his key in the door.

He can be happy living on his own with his own space when I find a studio or a one bedroom and move out and take my kitties with me, and we can both be content, knowing that we have what we want out of life.

Yes, I'm bitter.

Yes, I think this is a silly catalyst to make me finally move out, but it's what's happened, and that's that.

Oh. I also stretched my ears up to 7/16". I think I'll be stopping here.