Forgiven? I thought so.
On the first day I met Dougal, I let him fall from the upstairs landing in my parents' house. He fell all the way to the bottom step, or maybe even the tiled floor below the bottom step; I honestly don't know because I was screaming and flailing, obviously. Dougal was fine because even at 6 weeks old, I think it's safe to assume he landed on his feet.
This week I uploaded a video talking about where I'm at in life right now, you can watch it here. This video sparked a couple of interesting conversations with IRL friends as well as commenters on the video, and all of this has led me to realise that I am not a cat.
I've decided that there is little this life can offer me that I do not have to work for, NAY, fight for. I've closed the door on the fortune teller who held the hand of my 18 year old self and told her that she would be offered a job before she'd even finished education - a tale I like to unearth every time someone tries to talk to me seriously about my future. To the people who feel like I have that 'things will always work out for you' air, I am not going to risk testing out your theory.
I'm still very far from having a game plan to carry me through the next 12 months, but I'm over the romantic notion of going where the wind takes me, seeing how it all pans out, following the path less-taken. [Possible career: cliché expert.] As much as I could blame the lack of career education during my adolescence, or the barren landscape of employment post-English degree, I think this capriciousness comes from me and me alone, and it's my responsibility to show it the door. At least for a few years.
Finally: do you think cats know they're going to land on their feet each time they fall? 'Cause Dougal looked pretty panicked when he slipped off the landing.