Rats have an innate aversion to the smell of cat urine. This aversion must be similar to the one select twenty-two-year-olds have towards tequila after their first party with Patron and subsequent pow-wow with pee-stained porcelain.
Scents send powerful messages. In this case, Stay away, lest ye want trouble.
I can't speak for rats, but I'm guessing they don't want to get eaten by feral felines. Experience tells me they'd rather search the sewers for radioactive substances (Splinter left some big sandals to fill). And so, if a rat smells a cat, it keeps its distance… unless it’s infected with the Toxoplasma gondii parasite.
Rats infected with the Toxoplasma gondii parasite lose their aversion to the smell of cats, which is unfortunate… for the rat. For the Toxoplasma gondii parasite, this is vanilla ice cream atop warm brownies floating in hot fudge. Because the Toxoplasma gondii parasite can only reproduce in cats’ guts.
I often feel like I’m a prisoner of my own mind. My own worst enemy. Like, every week I don’t do the things I need to do in order to create a better future for myself. Instead, I do the things I’ve always done and remain sad and pathetic. And I have no one to blame but myself.
If I didn’t eat the cornucopia of confectionery goodies my wife brought home from school, then I’d be ripped. I’d have a physique worthy of admiration. I’d feel confident posting on Instagram. But, I ate them. And not responsibility. I could have had one or two treats every night. My diet allows for such luxuries. With Two Meal Muscle, I have 500 calories of free play every single day. Doesn't matter. Ate ‘em all. In one sitting.
If I didn’t obsess over the words I write, then I’d send more emails. I’d write more articles. I’d make a podcast. I’d make YouTube videos.
But, I obsess. I sit here, debating commas and semicolons, trying to Anthony Bourdain the mundane, while sixteen-year TikTokers make more money than I have in student loan debt in one month by uploading grainy footage from the front-facing camera on their Samsung smartphone.
Week after week, day after day, I work against my self-interest. It’s the worst kind of Groundhog Day. Because I know how to break the cycle. And I’m capable of breaking the cycle. I’m not trying to make an elephant fly. If someone had a gun to my head and said, “Break the cycle,” then I’d break the cycle. Easy.
And so, why don’t I break the cycle? Why do I slide into the same loop every single week?
I have some guesses. Being a pretend psychologist is my favorite pastime. I’ve psychoanalyzed rocks. But, if I am being honest with myself, I don’t really know why I’m a semi-pro self-saboteur.
Here’s what I do know:
When I’m feeling down and really beating myself up for being unable to escape this self-defeating spiral, there’s something oddly comforting about the thought of being controlled by a parasite.
May the Gains be with you,
Ant