Smelly Kat, Sleepy Girl

I just finished watching all ten seasons of Friends and am still in disbelief that it began airing over twenty years ago.  I've had dates who were born after the Friends premiere (yes, recently.  Shut up.)

For the ten years it was on (and longer), people sang "Smelly Cat" when I introduced myself.  In return, I had to swallow my irritation and come to terms with what a hackneyed world we live in.  At some point, my younger sister started just calling me "Smelly", but that turned out to be because I thought heroin was more interesting than hygiene maintenance.  It didn't have anything to do with the occasional bouts of homelessness, which is what happens to moochers who aren't Rachel and Joey.  

After January 3rd, 2007 (my sobriety date), I began gradually following a more curious path.  Eccentrics like me, who are sensitive and intuitive, tend to wind up as either ascetics or occultists.  The "dark side" involves more teamsmanship, whereas the path of "peace and joy" compliments my intermittent desire for people to scoot.     

Me at 29 years old
Resting on my loveseat when I lived in an Orthodox parish.
In my search for infinity and beyond, I wound up homeless for seasons.  Twice, I lived in Eastern Orthodox parishes, the last of which was on property that didn't have plumbing yet.  It's common for an Orthodox parish to have a monkish wanderer living in a closet or shed.  Not once was I stinky.  Even by the time my clothes became rags, I smelled like hope and sunshine.  
Now both lives are behind me, and my journey as a writer has lead to a new horizon of snacking, napping, and binge-watching TV on my phone.  My hygiene is pristine, and I smell like Sirocco vintage perfume.  That's from doing "European Laundry", where I spray a mix of it with water and alcohol into the pits and crotches of my rags.  Go ahead and say "TMI".  I'm at peace with your hackneyed quips.  
Me at 35 years old
Resting on my futon because I can't handle my beta-blockers