Okay, no, don’t send me messages: I’m fine. There’s something wrong with my brain that makes me more upset when people say nice things to me, so just don’t.

It’s not me that’s making me mad and scared, it was fact that I always yell at my parents to keep the cats inside the house at night. Tonight both of my cats got outside and when I was trying to look for them and call them back in, I saw this huge fucking coyote, right on the edge of my lawn. We kept eye contact for ten minutes. Neither of us blinked. Moved.

He was huge. Easily wolf-size, ears pricked, stock still, twenty feet from me, fur bristling. I could tell he wasn’t really ready to fight me (probably because he could see the huge-ass shovel handle I had in my hand for that exact reason, because I knew from a friend there were coyotes in the area). He finally shrank back into the shadows, out of range of my flashlight, and I booked it back into my house, called for my fucking parents to actually start to care about our pets that were still fucking outside, and come back with the stick still clutched white-knuckled in my hand. I was going to get those cats back inside the house if I had to beat a coyote to death.

We did. No cats were harmed during that fucking nightmare, and no coyotes were, either. (which I’m kind of disappointed about. I wanted to crack their skulls open.)

But the fact remains that my parents didn’t fucking care after that, either, and I can guarantee that tomorrow my cats will be outside again.

My cats were about twenty feet away from a coyote, and my parents were indifferent.

My beloved animals could’ve died tonight, and I was the only one willing to help them.