Reborn on the internet as a cat.

My top three skills are:

1. I’m exceptionally fast at throwing words up on the screen. My average is over 100 words per minute, and I can type in bursts of 130wpm, which puts me in the top 1%. This is almost meaningless, especially as I’m prone to repetitive strain injuries. At best, it allows me to make Boomers feel inadequate.

2. I have excellent circadian rhythm. Ask me what time it is, and I’m usually able to correctly guess within a 15-minute range. I don’t need an alarm clock to wake up (many deaf people use either a flashing or a vibrating alarm clock). Jet lag doesn’t seem to affect my internal clock: I can still get up at 5am Japan Standard Time if needed, and I have!

3. I have the world’s most airtight asshole. Of course, I fart, but I do so within the confines of a washroom, or when I’m alone. I never fart in public. The ex with whom I lived for more than five years can vouch for this, as can Yann, my co-habitator of three years. This is a skill I’ve developed out of what I believe to be basic decency.

But enough about me. Please now direct your attention to…

Instagram’s newest sensation, EnfoireLeChat!

He’s cute, soft, cuddly, and rude! His cute face is sometimes the only thing stopping me from punting him to the moon.

This morning at 6:50, he jumped on and off me repeatedly. Smashing 18 pounds of cat chonk onto my sensitive spots. He does this every morning, and I’m always the victim because I’m easier to wake than Yann.

Yesterday, Enfoiré peed on the mat outside the litter box because the box wasn’t clean to his liking. Even if he’s picky about the sanitary conditions of the litter box, he tries beating up Bubble while Bubble uses the litter box.

He’s a jerk.

So, I’ve decided to exploit him so that I can spy on people. I deactivated my personal account a month ago, yet it’s been reactivated twice without my consent. When I visit someone’s Insta page, Insta asks you to log-in to continue if you’d like to scroll past the third row of photos. At that point, I step back from Instagram, only to learn later that my account was reactivated anyway.

I don’t know. But I do know that I don’t trust Facebook, which owns Instagram.

The benefits of Instagramming as a cat are twofold. One, I can browse individual accounts (Poorly Drawn Lines) without reactivating my personal account (which I may still do in the future). Two, Enfoiré is a treasure that should be shared with the world.

It’s not that Bubble isn’t as loved: he just wouldn’t be able to handle the fame.

Anyway, back to me: that list of top three skills sounds like something Oprah would tell people to write in their journal. It came from a conversation with Yann where I asked whether he’d ever been bashful about using new signs he’d learn online with me.

He didn’t need to think about it for long and answered, “Not really.”

When we were living in Montréal, I was always apprehensive about using my rudimentary French to converse with people in writing. My written English is a way to challenge the prejudices people have about deaf people being simple minded. My rudimentary French, I thought, would confirm those prejudices. This is also why I don’t use my voice in public. People equate speech with intelligence, and I sometimes use a soft G when I should have used a hard G.

“Don’t be silly, people don’t think that!” my mother would tell me. Then again, Mom had never read an online comment section.

I’ve had my accomplishments used against non-disabled people, “If Laura can do it, what’s your excuse?”

As if every skill in the world is somehow tied in with one’s ability to hear.

I’m also good at keeping my phone’s charge above 50%, remembering names of people I haven’t seen in 20 years, gift wrapping, hanging up my clothes, uploading new posts for Monday and Thursdays, and not falling for phishing scams.

What’s people’s excuse for not holding their farts in anyway?