Months pass where one day might as well look like the next. My cat continues to be a serial killer, which makes me think of both cereal and murder. It is not a coincidence every time I send away a rodent to freedom or read its last rites I get a weird craving for cornflakes. A couple of big game drops have helped form minor distractions. FFXIV's latest expansion, Dawntrail, came out in one of the warmest weeks of summer like always, requiring careful rationing of playtime after work while minimising the hazards to our hardware. This isn't exactly a joke. Me and Seth have had video cards dying on us during early access week in the past 11 years of this MMO. Dawntrail is set in a roughly 15th century fantasy Americas-like environment. It's pretty and incredibly detailed in ways that appeals to both my inner nerd that goes into a dungeon and admires the floor tiles and my inner nerd that reads about the Columbian exchange and squeals when I see visual representations of the "three sisters" planting method inside a pueblo village. As usual, my husband spends the first weeks zooming through new zones really hoping for more people to talk to about Plot and Stuff, while I lag behind fishing at every pond, stream and pool of stagnant water wailing sadly about my dwindling inventory space. This expansion also gives players random cravings for Central/South American food, particularly corn as a staple carb. Luckily for us, a delightful Mexican restaurant called Mayah's opened within walking blocks from us that specialises in some amazing pibil they kindly top a great deal of menu items with. Most dishes also come with hot, freshly made corn tortillas I would happily eat plain. The store is one of the few we've encountered that serves food in actual American portions though. I've joked the next time I go there, I'll just get the waffles for breakfast because I know I probably won't overeat that. The last time I ordered an as described 'small plate' of fried plantains, I could probably have eaten a quarter and packed the rest home and I wouldn't have needed anything else. Dawntrail also respects bananas as a staple carb, resulting in a secondary craving for bananas.

The other thing that came out was Shin Megami Tensei V Vengeance. You know SMT V, that game I spent years waiting for while finding out the next Atlus game was yet another Persona. That came out late last year. Unfortunately, it first came out for the Switch, which was all right but not too kind to its vast explorable open-world design. Performance was sufficiently stilted to give both of us motion sickness while playing. The new expanded version of the game was also released for the PS5, whose much more powerful engine now enabled us to tag team this comfortably. We're about 60% through the story (I think), so far playing the original game without touching the new content at all. One of the recent story reveals had me seriously thinking about the difference in storytelling style for Persona games (an SMT spin-off) and the original SMT line. Persona games are centred around a complex main plot, like online rumours are mysteriously coming true in the real world. You resolve the story by connecting with a large cast of NPCs, who each have their own arcs and develop alongside your character. It's very tightly interwoven and structured.

SMT games are typically premised around the end of the world. The creator god is probably dead. Angels, demons and gods from all manner of pantheons battle over how the new world is to be shaped, with your character as the final arbiter. There are NPCs, and they might be important in some way, but you're not going to spend dozens of hours listening to their woes or trying to date them. Plot development can happen like this: Your boss comes in and tells you and your fellow top achievers there's a global conference for your org coming up. Your subsidiary is going to secede from the main org. It's going to be okay, says your boss, because he's also one of the progenitor Japanese gods. Also, Tokyo is slowly fading away into the ether and you might not have a reality to go home to. That's a five minute conversation. That's all you need to know because you have a huge herd of demons to tame and combine to create better demons so you can fight even more powerful demons and who else is going to spend another 50 hours running around grinding if not you?

If collecting and evolving a menagerie of demons sounds oddly familiar, this might be because a certain other franchise that starts with a P borrowed SMT's core mechanic for a wider, younger audience. SMT games are not for kids. They might not even be for a segment of adults. It is gloriously blasphemous. Virtually nothing is sacred. SMT (specifically its spin-off Digital Devil Saga) is the game that taught me there is nothing that running around in the parking lot for an extra two hours levelling up your party will not solve. Even that might only be enough to beat the next optional boss after a few tries, because unlike its spin-offs where the difficulty may plateau with enough over-levelling, the flagship SMT games are habitually unforgiving. They love their cheap surprises. Your power to customise your party is commensurate to the game's RNG. Also, every SMT has featured at least one penis demon. The latest one has a boss I can only describe as "fruit vagina". If we go into detail, it's a putrifying fruit vagina with wee bat wings and a tongue making lewd gestures in your general direction.

As a result of my depressing media diet, I don't tend to get nightmares about monsters, because the real world makes me way more anxious.

Last month, we flew back to Kuala Lumpur for the first visit in 14 years. Seth and I were a little wary, as on the trip we took there when we just got married, my fellow countrymen—specifically conservative-looking Malay men in public places—would give my husband dirty looks. Mind you, I always expected to be the one who got the dirty looks, since young Asian women dating white guys had a reputation as gold diggers in Southeast Asia when I was growing up. It's still the reason I'm wary about visiting Bangkok (where people treated me like I was my Dad's mistress everywhere we went). Turns out, we were fine. The people of my home city have noticeably gained a level of cosmopolitanism that wasn't there before. We were never hostile towards foreigners, actually I'd say most Malaysians are pretty friendly if approached, but there used to be a slight wariness, I guess? It was like when we were in Singapore a bunch of years back. Seth was at best ignored and at most given curious stares because he's Very Tall. I have also aged appropriately into a tube-shaped, 40-something Asian lady. Nothing to see here.

The very first thing we discovered upon landing in Malaysia is that KLIA is horrible about signage. The light rail that connects the airport terminals is currently being refurbished, so arrivals are bussed to Terminal 1 for immigration processing. No one told us this when we exited our gate and like everyone else, we initially followed signage to the Arrival Hall through these long, boarded-up tunnels (for the refurbishment) while getting ever more confused. It was by chance our nice neighbours on the flight told us that a) there was actually a Business-class passenger exit no signs told us about and b) we needed to take a bus. They even led us to the bus. Such nice people!

Getting an airport limo to our hotel was another weird experience. There were booths for hired cars right after immigration, but these seemed to be run by different companies. We arrived at midnight so most of these booths were closed. That said, a guy from one of the lit booths immediately approached us and asked if we needed a ride. Our first reaction to a tout is to look very baffled and suspicious. The limo company was legit though, with about-right pricing for our trip. We still waited anxiously as their guy led us out to the kerb and took forever calling up their car, which was just very reasonably stuck in traffic. The limo driver played 80s and 90s Malay love ballads (kind of like our enka) for the hour and change to our hotel. I kind of wanted to ask him why the old-fashioned the whole way there.

We actually stayed at the same hotel we did the last time we visited, Traders at KLCC. The hotel was a safe space which gave us a good experience the first time around, and it was still that way. My parents also kept reiterating how the location was extremely convenient to get around town. Given that we checked in after 1AM, we also opted for the hotel's buffet breakfast later that morning, which we remembered liking. Breakfast was good. They have a nice international spread, with the usual American, Continental and staple Malaysian options, plus sushi. My go-to was their congee station because that was a greatly comforting memory from the last time I was here. It only had all my favourite toppings, including braised peanuts, century egg and yau char kwai. They even had hot soy milk. And necessarily bracing teh tarik, the lifeblood of my people.

So, given my current tubular format, my plan before the trip was to eat relatively healthy and indulge some while I was in KL. KL only ever grows as a maze of gigantic shopping malls. You can't walk five feet without whacking into something tasty. I'm not saying San Francisco lacks good food because seriously, it has some of the best food. But beating KL on good food is not going to happen. Ever. Okay? The reason for that is because KL has a street food culture. With the advent of massive malls, this just means the walking spaces are landmines of random tasty things surrounded by restaurants. This means we have many small cafes between all points serving delightful Asian-style cream cakes. Whereas American-style cakes tend towards butter creams and can get overly sweet, Asian-style cream cakes mostly use whipped fresh cream fillings, possibly with fresh fruit. They're usually lighter than what I'd get in the US and definitely not so heavy or sugary. After many years abroad, I was craving fresh cream cake. Our transit point for this trip was through Narita Airport. You know what Narita Airport is like? It's a gauntlet of Japanese cheesecakes from across the great Nippon along with an army of high-end bakeries displaying sable cookies, mochi, custard-filled pastries and stuff so twee and fragile you'd be scared to eat them in glass cases between every single gate. Seth was practically holding me by the collar like a naughty hamster to stop me from rolling into them. Also, their delicately crisp butter-filled sable cookies are extremely elegant and will make you feel like a high-class lady of good standing after trying one. (I got a box to thank my spouse for surviving this trip with me.)

I did not get to eat cake every two hours. I did not even get to eat cake for breakfast. Seth gave me this weird look when I tried, like I somehow am not supposed to use my disposable income as an adult to make horrible life decisions. I had two slices of cake on a trip of ten days. One was an okay black forest gateau (my favourite cake) and another was an astoundingly amazing tiramisu mille crepe. The black forest was from a hotel (not all hotel cakes are equal), whereas the mille crepe was from a cake stand inside Isetan's supermarket area that seemed to specialise in "all the cakes and pastries you've ever read about in a manga". That mille crepe turned out to be just what I needed to remember that cake is wonderful and now most cakes are inferior again so I don't need to crave them.

Apart from my husband coming to retrieve me when he's realised I have yet again left him to keep walking while I stand longingly in front of a cafe menu board, the other reason I didn't get more cake than I thought I would was because there is too much good food in Malaysia in general. My parents wouldn't stop shovelling rich food at us virtually every day. At one point, I had to convince my mother not to make me pack home a large jar of pineapple tarts and some other random cookies we were getting at the same place to the hotel. In spite of her reassurances, we were not going to ever finish that before we left. Instead, I got the "small" sample, which was still eight tarts, ten kuih bahulu (Malay madeleines) and two small chocolate-covered butter cookies. Oh, they were delicious. But we really could have done with just four bahulu. (FYI, traditional non-biscuit cakes in Malaysia are variations on sugary coconut milk custards thickened with glutinous rice flour, steamed, baked and fried.) There was also the exquisite-but-too-much dim sum, very good but slightly different Beijing-style cuisine (my bias towards Cantonese cuisine holds) and incredibly rich and perhaps a little too spicy authentic Malay dinner. Doesn't help that my family orders way too much food by default, as it is more polite to overfeed guests than underfeed them. And that's outside of the things we managed to eat on our own! I had intense cravings for tofu fa (very soft custard tofu in sugar syrup), strangely muted cravings for roti. Seth even endured what he called, "your thing for runny eggs", our traditional Chinese coffeeshop breakfast of soft-boiled eggs with soy sauce and white pepper, usually served with a tall, buttery kaya (coconut egg curd) toast and bracing tea (or coffee) laced with sugar, condensed milk and evap. Seth loves Malaysian kopi, yet we both came home appreciating our usually sugarless morning caffeine with half and half. (Is this why fresh cream cakes seem like the least of our evils to me?)

Surprising food trend: Biscoff biscuits as a flavouring for coffee and baked goods. Lotus-brand Biscoff biscuits are sort of like a much sweeter, slightly thicker, cinnamon-flavoured pepparkakor. They are insanely addictive and great if you can't find pepparkakor (and still less sweet than most American cookies). I was vaguely aware that Biscoff is ground into a paste for toast. It turns out that the actual European biscuit this is based on, speculoos, has that usage when not eaten in biscuit form. So it makes a certain logic that you'd put it between pastry. Seems like a waste of crunchy biscuit, but it's probably easier than mixing sugar, cinnamon and butter.

Less surprising food trend: Korean food. Korean food, like Korean dramas and K-pop, seem to have really crept into the local consciousness. It was here when I left, but is more pronounced now. Actually amused us to read the menu of a popular Korean fried chicken chain and realise that all the specialty drinks were clearly mojitos with the alcohol removed to meet local tastes. When you know something probably started out with shochu in it...

Malaysia apparently still has trouble coughing up a burger worthy of an American. Yes, even Burger King and McDonalds. On the other hand, McDonalds sells nasi lemak with buttermilk fried chicken chop covered in gravy, so take that American McDonalds. No, I never got to try it because there was just too much food.

Anime is big in Malaysia. We were always more exposed to anime to begin with, since no Malaysian child born after the 1980s cannot not know Doraemon and Ultraman, but walking downtown across giant ads embedded in the sidewalk for an Attack on Titan finale art exhibition is next level. Pharmacies sell SPY X FAMILY stationary box sets. Kinokuniya in KLCC, one of our favourite must-visit places in the whole city to this day, has an expanded manga and light novel section to rival the one in San Francisco. The visitors are from all sorts, students debating which latest volume of what to spend their precious allowance on, working age adults, even families with children where the parents know what they're doing. We bought some cute gacha toys at Lot 10, claimed to be the Japanese mall in KL, and the selection had changed by the time we came back less than a week later. This means turnover is fast. There's a scary Don Don Donki (Don Quijote, as seen in Yakuza games) with four floors of Japanese snacks, instant mixes and fresh mentaiko what made me want to cry since I can't take that home with me in Lot 10. I recommend it for the trippiness. Japanese food is everywhere. Never hard to find in KL to begin with, it's clearly still much loved. Our convenience stores now carry rice balls alongside the usual hot drinks, steamed buns, fried assortments, sandwiches & co., making them basically konbini without the booze. 

Early in our trip, Seth found out we were a few doors down from one of the most highly rated omakase sushi establishments in the city. Well, this meant I had to have a cute date with my husband, whiskers fully twitching. Omakase experiences are about enjoying the food regardless of what you get served. Actually, it's about trying something new and realising you've found something fascinating you never knew about because of the challenge. It means discovering even though you don't like squid, firefly squid (hotaru ika) has a nice crunch and a mild seafood taste, and even though you've written much copy about the notes of cream in uni and you personally find uni too sophisticated for you to appreciate—er, it still tastes like high-class snot. But it did initially go down mild and creamy, I swear. Seriously though. The staff at Sushi Oribe were incredible and kind, service is impeccable to the point of being psychic. I had previously swum right before and came out with a severe allergy to the pool water yet not fully realising it. This meant I was sniffling with pink eyes while eating. The poor servers worried I had a food allergy, discreetly put a box of tissues beside me and I felt like I could not reassure them enough it really wasn't the food. The friendly chefs had a flip chart with labeled pictures of every seafood they could possibly serve, so we were given brief explainers of each item's provenance. It was fun! I got to try fishes (or fish parts) I never had before, like sakura ebi, something I knew about which just never came up in anything I ate. They added them to a sublime chawanmushi. I already love chawanmushi to bits, the fine wee shrimps added a nice texture without being too prawny at all. They served halibut fins two ways, one deep fried (totes okay with deep fried fish fins and bones) and one marinated into a lovely sweetish-sour tenderness. I never knew salted fish intestines would be a mild sea flavour on top of sashimi (I'm pretty sure they're usually quite stronger). We were even shown a mini tuna model to teach us which specific cuts were served at any time. One of the dishes were served with what the chef called, "Japanese sambal". I asked if it was a shishito pepper, and he said it was an actual Japanese chili. It had a nutty flavour I thought was nice if I could find it. Chile Japones is apparently a real thing. Will keep eyes open for it.

Other random closing thoughts:

How big is video games in Malaysia? I don't know, weirdly. Since the pirated video game boom of the 90s and 00s dried up, it's hard to tell. Original software is expensive for Malaysians, but so is manga. Most PC games are sold online-only anyway. There are stores selling Playstation and Switch games. Me and Seth were looking hard for region-specific releases we couldn't find in the US. Last time we were here, we found Shinovi Versus and Dark Souls before they were localised for North America. I know Malaysians play video games online. I've run into them on FFXIV. This might be where the market has leaned into.

On my earlier point, KL really can't stop growing giant malls and tall buildings. Malaysia doesn't get the natural disasters prevalent in the very nearby Ring of Fire, so making 50 to 100-floor towers is how we do modern. Seth took photos that suggested my city is getting more cyberpunk over time. Cranes and wire-scaffolding soar across the whole downtown. We still suck at pedestrian-friendly streets though. This is ironic, since KL is now extremely well-connected by rail, even to satellite towns I wouldn't have thought possible in college. Generally, you'd think this means people would be incentivised to park and commute, but we also have haven't stopped building fancy highways and elevated roads. Our traffic jams continue to be epic. Convenient zebra crossings and pedestrian walkways are not to be expected, even in the city centre, which can be said to have more of these tools than other places. Our streets in San Francisco aren't pretty, but damn do we have zebra crossings. Back when I first moved here, I appreciated not potentially being run over while dashing across a four-lane highway every day. This is probably why I still assiduously insist on crossing at a zebra crossing when I can, even if I could just cross from the middle of the street, just to appreciate this luxury.

By the end of ten days, we were genuinely tired of exploring high-end malls. It's not like we were going to buy from Chanel. Neither of us genuinely felt a need to shop, even though Malaysia is a major shopping destination. We tried to supplement our visit with an actual trip to the national forest reserve in the middle of KL. Unfortunately for us, the eco-park was closed due to bad weather. Walking in 35C heat has its limits, never mind I used to walk in it all the time. We did have a lot of fun just walking everywhere though, remembering how much we like doing this. Next time we go, we'll probably opt to stay closer to downtown, as we also explored KLCC and its surrounds to a nub. I really wanted to visit the National Gallery, which I haven't gone to in years and couldn't. In fact, if we go again (we will), I'd like to stop by more museums. I got to taste a lot of things I could only find in KL, which Seth was very pleased I could do, but I definitely did not try everything, nor some things more than once. It is also necessary to go to KL with my husband. He is a reassuring presence that is irreplaceable and my adventuring companion. But most of all, he noted that twice during our trip, I managed to yell out loud, "Thank the dark gods!" in a crowded place and somehow...people ignored it.

He looked. People ignored it. 

Donut worry. I have not recently gained an allegiance to any gods, dark or otherwise. That was just due to high exposure to WAR40K media. 

He also told me about it only a week after we got home. 

In his second year, Moggie is now fully integrated into our household. This means he has had time to develop the bad habits that plague cat owners everywhere while being fully reassured we will love him forever. Such as waking up his humans in terrible ways at 7AM for breakfast. The underside of my bed looks like a toddler with razor sharp claws crawled upside down and ripped apart the entire cloth lining to shreds. (See, earlier statement about waking up humans in terrible ways.) Outside of this, he is still a sweet, loving cat. Many nights, we go to sleep nuzzling heads while he purrs at maximum volume. (Seth: While I am slowly being pushed off the bed.) Moggie loves to lick our faces, fingers and toes. He head bumps to get attention. You may be asking, don't I check every cat before adoption for drooling? How I am happy to be licked by a cat?

Firstly, there's a difference between a cat that leaks drool every time it purrs and a cat that just likes to lick people. Secondly, I grew up with dogs. Not small dogs, big dogs. Being licked by a dog is several orders of magnitude more disgusting than being licked by a cat. I love dogs, but being licked by a dog still makes me run to wash my hands afterwards. In comparison, a cat's tongue feels more like being licked with damp sandpaper. I find it quite pleasant, assuming I'm not licked on my eyelids or an open wound. (Seth: Being licked on the face by a cat at 7AM is still disgusting though.)

Even though he's the size of about 20 kittens gathered together in a ball, Moggie still behaves somewhat like a kitten. He's excitable and enthusiastic about moving objects. Helping make the bed is his favourite household chore. Hunting Seth's toes under the blanket before bed is the best. He enjoys helping with everything. Due to some weird fight for dominance with Seth, Moggie has made it his job to steal Seth's seat whether it be his office chair or preferred couch. We know he's actively stealing the seats because he deliberately waits until Seth is walking back towards said seat to take it where Seth can watch his seat being stolen. Usually with a satisfactory, "Mrp." If Seth has not yet touched the seat that day, it is beneath his notice. Maybe Moggie thinks he has a chance to challenge Seth because he's bigger than the average cat, but he doesn't quite realise my husband is also somewhat giant. Only Seth can comfortably hold our cat upside down for disciplinary purposes. Seth is obviously the disciplinary parent since I'm hopeless. If my cat has a tantrum every two hours to demand a meal, my idea of dealing with it is to yank the cat off the furniture at the appropriate times and ignore him until he goes away. After about three hours of a flailing toddler tantrum, Seth will either just feed the cat or throw him outside and shut the window. My cat continues to be a leading cause of death in dungeons.

When not echo-locating us with his Moggie Sonar for food, Moggie spends his daylight hours visiting our neighbours to have rude conversations with their cats (and at least one dog). He is a sturdy, muscular cat alongside his chonky bits. Our neighbouring cats are suitably annoyed. The little black cat next door (who we found out is fully outdoors and has a long history of dealing with young upstarts) gets back at Moggie in the evenings when he is locked inside by sitting calmly where Moggie can see him through the kitchen window. That's all he has to do, sit calmly and maybe clean himself very languidly. This sends Moggie into a tizzy of scrabbling at the kitchen window, besmirching his honour as a cat while I laugh hysterically. (Seth: Our cat is a doofus.)

I get to claim my cat is sweet and loving because he's the first cat I've met who thanks me for feeding him. When I bring out food, there's a 75% chance he will chirp, purr and even lean against my feet. Every cat I've fed up until now, even other people's cats, wail at me like a banshee until I put the bowl down. I have low standards, okay? When your cat gets five (small) meals and a nap but still accuses you of mistreatment every single day you need to take what you can get. Oh, he's also finally as soft and fluffy as a cloud, the proof that he receives sufficient pets. Whenever he's on the bed and he notices I'm stirring, he'll come over to purr on my shoulder and put me back to sleep. On rare occasion, he'll flop against me so I can hug him like a plushie. Guys, hugging a fluffy animal like a plushie in bed is my #2 Ultimate Sleeping Goal. (#1 is going to sleep on Totoro's tummy.) (Seth: I won't fit.) 

Seth actually hugs Moggie like a plushie every morning the moment he senses him nearby because if he doesn't, he gets licked on the face. This in itself would probably be yucky but okay if Moggie didn't then bite his nose. Yes, Moggie bites for attention. There's a fine line to distinguish when he'll just lick you affectionately and when he'll bite you. If he looks hangry, retrieve whatever appendage it is before it gets bit. I always thought "ankle biter" was some cute phrase someone thought up to describe human toddlers. Little did I expect it was a real description of an actual life form. If we must, human toddlers are also actual life forms. Virtually all of them drool and as part of their growth, they undergo a phase where they need to nibble everything at least once to make sure it is friendly. Thus, Moggie is like a toddler (minus the drool) not in the sense he has the intelligence of a two-year-old but in the sense that he nibbles everything, throws ferocious tantrums and sulks when made to time-out between his people who are ostensibly watching television but really rubbing his tummy while he gets grumpier and cuter.

Finches is once again available on Kindle and Nook! Sorry these versions were unavailable since March—a full explanation follows for those interested. Print versions were and are always available from your favourite bookstore too!

As I mentioned last year, Vernacular Books, the wonderful people who published Finches, has closed down. They did everything they could to do right by their authors so I got all the proofs for my book. Unfortunately, due to some snafus, I wasn't able to get access to the Smashwords version of Finches nor was the ebook version on our main distributor properly transferred with the print version. I got the latter fixed, which was a huge learning curve for me about the epub format and how different distributors published ebooks. The result is that Amazon and Barnes & Noble carry Finches for their readers again. But because of the issues with Smashwords, I fear the version there is gone for good. If I can find a way to convert my proof to epub that doesn't irreparably break the formatting it won't be forever. Until then, I'm still figuring out tools.

Earlier this month, I got word that Vernacular Books is shutting down. I continue to be beyond grateful for the chance my publisher gave me with Finches. From my editor, J. M. McDermott, who figured out what last push my manuscript needed and arranged for a beautiful book, to Eric Borsage, who with Joe's stepping down earlier this year, has been endlessly kind and supportive with my 'new writer' questions—and arranging for a box of Finches to be mailed to NO last minute so I could sign them!

Efforts are being made behind the scenes to continue sales of Finches, electronically and in print, although this may take some time to work out. Nonetheless, for those readers who want copies of my book or any other of the fine titles under Vernacular Books, this may be your last chance to get the particular editions still on sale now. 

The last time I was in New Orleans, it was in 1987. This is my first time being able to appreciate the city as an adult. For all that my first World Fantasy Convention jangles my nerves, I realised I was really happy to be here upon landing. It's a place I always wanted to visit again and within five minutes I realised I wanted to visit it again outside of a (for me) work convention context. This became particularly clear as we got on the highway and passed by our first cemetery with the city's famous above-ground tombs. I had really hoped I would have time to visit Lafayette #2 on this trip (Lafayette #1 is currently closed to tours due to refurbishment), but the WFC's schedule will take up all our time. Therefore! Someday I will come back and drag Seth around being a history nerd tourist, with refreshment stops for beignets.

When I was last here, my parents remember seeing the crowds of screaming girls around the Hyatt Regency waiting for Prince, who at the time was on his Purple Rain tour. Yes, Mum, it's the same hotel. The Hyatt Regency is actually a labyrinthine space inside what looks like a generic contemporary hotel building of at least a few decades. The rooms are located above several twisting floors of ballrooms, restaurants and suspicious corridors with no visible end, all serviced by their own elevators. Getting to the rooms requires navigating a separate system of bubble lifts beyond that social space, with a keypad system that is both simple and confusing to almost anyone. And then you rise up to some 20+ floors of long corridors overlooking that vast set of ballrooms and eateries, eerily quiet hallways with comfortingly muted lighting where your room is one door of many. It reminded me of public housing flats, with hundreds of human spaces crammed into a courtyard-facing block, filled with life but closed off from the rest of life as well. The room, by the way, is nice. You can tell this hotel's weathered some time without any real encumberance to its comfort and functionality.

We missed our chance to register on the first day because our flight came in late, so we went to the sports bar and had what we both agree is some of the best red beans and rice and seafood gumbo either of us has ever had. Creamy red beans cooked to a rich, velvety stew with long-grained rice in the middle. The seafood gumbo (shrimp and crawfish) had a sublime shellfish broth that is only achieved when your kitchen has that many sea bug shells to concentrate into a primordial sea bug essence. It was tossed with generous amounts of shrimp and crawfish, ensuring that one contributes to making the world a less buggy place. 

Late as we were, we did get to see the Con's opening address by Ursula Vernon. Here, we learned that vampire tours in New Orleans can be terrible and worth undertaking for research but only passably tolerable when done drunk. Why vampires (I blame Anne Rice) when you can tour the perfectly lovely local cemeteries, my brain asks? (Here, I began feeling sad again I wasn't going to see Lafayette this time around.) I hoped I could get Ursula Vernon to sign a copy of one of her hamster books. Really, I would have loved to have her sign my Warhamster print, but that is framed and hung above my desk at home.

Our first night's attempt at sleep was rather terrible. The hotel's pillows are the down types I hate because they immediately flatten into nothingness. This is the bane of every hotel I have ever been in, so I think geese just hate me because I find them tasty. I wanted to attend the panel on international views of fantasy outside of the US at 10AM, but conceded I needed a full hour to roll out of bed. We were told by the organisers that the donut shop around the block is apparently very good. Okay, these aren't beignets but I heard they had Bavarian creams with custard filling, and I like custard even more than I do donuts so I will let this happen. Well, I walked in and misread the Bavarian creams as "banana cream", thereby deluding myself into believing they didn't carry them that day, ordered a lemon-filled and a half dozen donut holes instead, and instantly regretted missing said custard. One of the benefits of the lockdown was our lack of access to donuts. Months of donut starvation meant the donuts we had tasted like pure sugar with a hint of yeast. Oh, yes. These people sell yeast donuts, not the abominable cake donut. I was still tasting phantom traces of glaze at dinner time after several glasses of water. Maybe I will go back for the Bavarian cream just to be completionist. Maybe we won't need any more donuts for the next three months.

We finally got registered for the WFC when we returned to the hotel. I had asked my publisher to help ship copies of my book over to the conference for my signing and reading. The very kind organisers got that box and I spent a long time explaining to the nice ladies at the registration desk with my overly soft voice through a mask that I would like to retrieve said box. One of the nice ladies called her spouse, who was also a volunteer, and we eventually found the box after some legwork. I was extremely grateful and already felt bad for troubling other people. 

It was then time to explore the dealer's room. I nearly got myself three different quirky cat shirts within five minutes of walking in. I somehow talked myself out of that purchase. Next door was a full table of books that seemed to be writing by all the guests and nominees these year. That was the first time I encountered my book for sale in the wild. It was cool. I didn't want to be that person and take a picture of it though. I mean, it seemed kind of rude to do. My eyes immediately went to the Ursula Vernon Hamster Princess books, the necessary medium for that autograph I still wanted. I also picked up Cattitude, a wee illustrated creature about how cats don't give a fuck and neither should you. Very nearly, I got that guide on making cats adorable hats made out of shedded cat hair. This is a very esoteric and specific subject and I respect someone for writing a book about it. Logically speaking, it's a natural transition from making felted animals. And having cat hair on everything. Someone will get this as a Christmas present, perhaps. The book, not the hat. I am insufficiently levelled in crafting to make this myself. I'm also fundamentally too lazy to brush my cat.

Seth attended a couple of panels in the afternoon. I went to one later in the evening about using social structures as a character. The panel was running a little over, so I didn't ask the question I wanted to, which was recommendations for each panelist's favourite book where social structures were subverted yet kept hidden between the lines to avoid censorship. This came up because one of the panelists escaped from Romania as a teenager and another had family escaping eastern Europe during a pogrom. It would also have been a substantially selfish question as those are exactly the kind of fiction books I love.

Both of us were interested in a panel on Old Appalachian ghost stories that was right after that, but we had to cancel the plan to get dinner. There wouldn't have been enough time to sit down, order and go back up to the room to retrieve things for my signing later. This turned out to be a great idea because both of us got so stuffed at dinner it hurt. Turns out, shared plates here in New Orleans feed four people and are unrelated to the small plates with six gyoza or eight ounces of karaage back home. I was also mildly salmon pink from a nice Sazerac. 

Among other things, it turned out I seriously misread the email blast about how to arrange for a place at the Mass Autograph Signing event. People were ideally meant to register online for seat placement or at the registration table. If you didn't do that, you got whatever seat was left over. The way I read it, I was supposed to show up at 7PM on the day itself and sign up, which was utterly wrong. I was fine with that because I did not expect to be a popular attraction and it was my mistake. (My serious goal was if I signed even two books I at least took a step forward.) Well, we crawled back downstairs a few minutes after the Mass Autograph Signing room began opening to guests, I spoke to the coordinator about what to do and chose an empty seat in a corner. It was a quiet corner, again, I wasn't expecting miracles. The first lady who turned up was the dealer who carried my book that I saw in the morning. She said I should come by and sign my books at her table the next day, which I thought was sweet, and that I should also take a photo of said book among others, which was super nice. A lady from England came in and asked me to sign her autograph book. She wasn't buying books because her space for it was limited. Eventually, a couple drifted by and asked if I took credit card, to which I said no. (I inconveniently forgot at that very moment I have a business PayPal account ostensibly to receive payments from my day job which functions perfectly fine for physical goods.) They did ask if it was sold at a dealer's table, which I was able to respond to in the affirmative. I also forgot to mention that I was signing the copies there tomorrow because I am really bad at promoting myself.

For about 30 minutes afterwards, it was quiet. Seth came by to help get me some water and offer moral support, also helped look for where Ursula Vernon's table was. Yet another nice lady (yes, I noticed the convention is filled with them) came over, introduced herself as one of the judges this year and thanked me for writing my book. That left me a little flabbergasted, but I think I was sufficiently grateful. She got a copy of my book, the first that night! And helpfully reminded me I had PayPal when she asked if I had it. Guys, I remember when trade shows took cash only. Seth came by for the last time to remind me I have a cute spouse and returned to the room because he was in pain. Planes are inherently bad for that tall dude. I said I would stay until 10PM at latest and go up earlier if it was still too quiet. 

I'm really happy this convention is fully masked. As a person who already is very bad at smiling, no one can see me grimace, only a pair of eyes. I will take this moment to note as someone who frequently writes about this topic critically, I do understand the value of anonymity that face coverings offer. I get it feels safer. If you're in an environment that is inherently dangerous to you—and this is true for women everywhere—showing as little of yourself as you can gives a sense of self-defense. I write critically about this topic nonetheless because I think it is a band aid to a bigger problem that won't fix itself. Yes, here though, I admit it helped me. 

At around this time, a very old friend of mine, C.C. Finlay, did turn up. I owed this guy a hug twenty years ago and I finally got to give him that hug. That was great. We started catching up. It was really good to talk to him in person. Made my night actually. I signed two more books before the room closed. One of them knew Charlie and stopped by because he was there, which was sweet. The other copy went to the nice people who helped me find my box of books in storage earlier. I was nervous about the signing the whole day. I mean, I'm still nervous about my panel on Saturday and my reading on Sunday. But today turned out to be really nice. I am deeply grateful to be here and the people around me.

Tomorrow though, I pretend to be a knowledgeable individual about the elements of horror writing. 

Hello. Got COVID. Who this?

We got all our jabs, so all things considered, what we had was mild. My temperature consistently read 99 degrees (no decimals) for two days straight. On the second day, I imagined I was a ThermoPot curdling yoghurt, just steadily warming away. Funnily enough, I was feverish without feeling feverish, unlike the spouse, who was laid on his back and energy-free for a few days. The most annoying thing about this has been sudden attacks of dry coughs that make me sound like I'm way worse off than I really am. For about two weeks since my birthday, I've felt like I've been under assault from a severe allergic reaction. It's like an eucalypt forest sprang up next door and went into spring mode, leaving me with a permanent sinus headache. I actually know what this feels like, since I lived next to an eucalypt forest for about 5 years. How can eucalyptus oil be so soothing but the pollen so bloody awful?

We're pretty sure we got sick from going on a date on my birthday week. In fact, if we had to pinpoint it further, it was likely from a rather tasty Japanese dinner where I got to gaze fondly at my husband for a couple of hours while talking about light novels I've read lately. Seth explained what "cultivation" means in a light novel concept to me. Initially, I thought it was about people being isekai-ed or thrown out of hero parties and living a slow life farming in the country. (There's a whole subgenre of gamers who just want to organic garden and game for the rest of their lives!) Turns out "cultivation" is actually that subgenre where people get yeet-ed (Seth explained what "yeet" means too) into isekais and level up into OP edgelords who hack whatever world they showed up in and possibly grow harem parties while they're at it. The last one may be sarcasm, it may be an honest truth. There's a good reason why I immediately drop fiction that says a character was sucked into a different world on the synopsis. I've read and seen some great isekai fiction over the years. But 95% of the time, it's generically bad. It doesn't matter if it's aimed at boys, girls or pansexuals, winds up in a novel, video game or original universe, starts off with an OP character or the guy starts from level zero, or especially if all the girls mysteriously and inexplicably like the main character (again, it still doesn't matter if the MC is straight or a lesbian woman—or if any of the genders are reversed).

In the process of trawling the interwebs of Japanese and Korean fan translations to read (legal translations if available; please support the authors and tip your translators) I have also discovered my taste in light novels runs yandere. My definition of yandere is a stalker-type obsessive love interest character who may have murderous intentions. If said character is also quiet and emotionless, even better. Generally, I like them male, but it doesn't really matter. Note: The dictionary definition of a yandere character is actually closer to a (normal?) possessive love interest character, usually female. 

Inner Seth Voice: "She means she reads characters that are Mary Sues of herself."
Inside Afi Voice: "He knew all this before he married me. This is true love."  

Sorry I've been quiet. My anxiety has been awful between the time my book came out last year and Dorian leaving us. Moggie's presence has been incredibly helpful, as has been my overly kind husband's, but threading two thoughts together to be social is extremely difficult. My cat, a known Creature of Dorkness, is a tiny wrecking ball. I mean that in the loving, patient exhaustion of a cat parent way and the fucker peed on my chair again kind of way. He's done that twice in two weeks. Each time, my chair goes on the porch to get washed and dry for three days. He genuinely hates me working at my desk. We're in a lull between patches, or I would have a swirl of squeaks around the same chair about two hours into doing some Extreme primal fight followed by him sounding like he's destroying my coat closet. As it is, I just get a cat who helps me type while I work. Maybe he almost sits on my jammy toast. Maybe he'll steal Seth's chair if he gets up for longer than five seconds.

Carnivale happened last weekend, the first time in two years. I only realised it when I saw the paper cut-outs lining the street and folded barricades at each corner the night before. On Saturday, it was oddly quiet. Usually, I can hear it through my kitchen in the morning. Seth went out to get meat on a stick and empanadas. I got a Ctulthu cat shirt as a present. The empanadas were way bigger than I'm used to, more like a flat meat pie. Our cat kept making attempts to escape with the chicken on a stick. On Sunday, I could hear the celebrations from my kitchen. We both actually went to explore because Seth thought he saw an Afghan food truck when he was out. I have learned that Afghan food is very, very good. Afghan kurma is now a rotation on the menu at home. Alas, there was no Afghan food truck, just the Hella Halal meaty food items truck.

We caught some of the actual Carnivale parade. The Brazilian contingent is always fun because they bring their own percussion band, unlike some of the other teams that may have a speaker truck and/or some live music. Carnivale managed to happen on a warmer than usual day this year, but it was still cold. Between the spangled bikinis and heavy-looking headgear, I always admire the gumption of the dancers. To prance around like that in our normal weather, and especially if you're also eschewing a body suit, seems like hard work. 

The merch booths went on for about four blocks each way, I reckoned. Every so often, a random stranger would hold up a No to H sign and we would be proud to see them. FYI, please keep Chesa Boudin in office. In spite of what the news is suggesting, San Francisco is not in the middle of a "crime wave". There's lots of problems in our city. But the homeless are not the DA's job to fix, drug addicts needing access to safe needles and services that actually help them stay clean are not the DA's job to fix and seeing either of these on the street is no reason to clutch your pearls and blame the DA. Putting money into social services helps everyone. Voting to help increase social services and access to them helps everyone. Incidentally, these will also help bring down crime in the long term. Getting the DA who was voted into office recalled so he can be replaced by someone the Mayor chooses is, apart from generally unhelpful, not how democracy should work.

The other cool thing we saw at Carnivale were outreach booths to register folks to vote and from the Public Defender's Clean Slate program. I like being reminded why I love where I live. Also, whoever decided to stick the one Republican candidate's booth in the middle of all the GLBTQ+ service outreach booths was a genius. Even if it was providence and not deliberate, it was hilarious.

There was so much merch but sadly way less food this year. Some nice folks from Bayview were selling local-sourced, low sugar jams so of course I had to go spend money on homemade marmalade. The lone stall for corn dogs, BBQ and funnel cake was doing great business with the longest and most annoying line. I got fish and chips because that stall was way faster (plus, I love fish and chips). The same stall claimed to have shrimp chowder and I was not brave enough to see how I would juggle a bread bowl of shrimp chowder through the crowd. Seth kindly lined up for funnel cake while I dragged home a giant fish fillet and shrimp tacos with enough chips between them to last three days. He took so long returning after me I was starting to worry. Used to be there were so many of these BBQ pits lining the Carnivale route we'd walk through smoke three doors deep. It was so smoky, I would hope it scared away mosquitoes. Lines would still be long but not aggravating. I guess there's a reason funnel cake is but once a year.

Thinking about it, the reason funnel cake resonates with me is because funnel cake reminds me of the batter-based fried snacks of my people. Stuff like (savoury) murukku at Deepavali or kueh ros at Aidilfitri. You can buy both outside of the festive season these days, but they're very much celebration food in my mind. It truly doesn't help that the funnel cake booth often also sells fried plaintains—which is an everyday snack in Malaysia (and possibly most of Southeast Asia). True story: I once gained five pounds in two weeks on a trip to Bangkok because the Thais make the best fried bananas in the entirety of ASEAN. Note: My husband doesn't quite do bananas. 

Eat funnel cake (and whatever other unhealthy food objects you picked up at the fair) in the afternoon, then feel like you'll never eat again for the rest of the day. It's not a good thing if you're under ten, but worth doing once a year.

We mourned. I made spaetzel because that was the last thing Dorian merrily plonked his face into when I tried to have lunch. His ashes were ready to pick up before Valentine's Day. We grimly walked to the emergency clinic and back. They took a paw print before he died and I marvelled at the fact he really did have the biggest toes. When I wasn't cripplingly sad, I was determined to fix up the parts of the house that had lain neglected after Sif wrecked them and I didn't get to because I had a second cat who was liable to get into the same places. I told myself we were not getting another cat until I at least patched up the spots my poor fluffy cloud of anxiety peed on. Weeks of sanding and wood filler later, I had to concede I was never going to get the straight, baby smooth lines I wanted out of my work without mechanical help. I'm an engineer's daughter. Every time I look at the rippled, uneven skirting where my hand-sanding could not get right, I wince. I kind of, sort of made the wrought-iron grate over our old-fashioned floor heater not rusty and repainted again. I still think I did an ass job with the walls. The floor looks nice only because the sealer I use makes my roughshod work look shiny. To the best of my knowledge, it no longer smells like cat pee.

Somewhere in mid-February, I was getting the husbandly brainwaves thinking he'd better get a cat to sleep on me before I collapsed from re-caulking the mouldy bits around the kitchen sink. Oh, that's been mouldy since we moved in. The sealant I got was way more liquid and tacky than caulk I'm used to. It refused to smooth down without a fuss. I swear I got it in silver and it both applied and dried on as white. Nothing on the label before or after purchase indicated this would happen. My first application looked like some kid had splooged toothpaste around our sink. I was so bothered by my work I ripped it out and started over. After judicious applications of painter's tape, a scraper, rags and isopropyl alcohol, it still looks kind of sad to be honest. Seth thinks it keeps out water and replaced the weird, hardened black bits I was trying to improve, so it works. I told myself if it really bothered me down the line, I'd apply some paint to make it match the rest of the grout in the kitchen. 

The week before Seth's birthday I was so miserable Seth asked, "If we got a cat, would that make you feel better?" The short answer was yes, though the long answer was that both of us were still overwhelmed from losing Dorian. Unfortunately, the SPCA had about five cats available the day we visited and all of them didn't quite work out. There was a bonded pair of 8-year-old mackerel tabbies where one had a tumour the SPCA vets were inspecting. It pained us immensely we couldn't help them. We'd just lost a cat to lymphoma and they were much older than we were expecting to work with. 

We went home and said we would come back the next weekend. There might be more cats. If not, we'd re-look at the cats we passed up on. Maybe they'd be less traumatised from recent transfers to the shelter. I kept my eye on the SPCA and Animal Care & Control's cat adoption pages. That Saturday, a posting went up on the ACC's website about an extremely friendly, chatty mottled 2-year-old tabby that spoke in "growls". I dragged Seth out to the ACC to see him. This was something I couldn't do without Seth because the ACC had moved since I last visited them and it took his map-reading skills to find the spanky new place they'd moved into. It was really swank and really quiet compared to the SPCA inside. Both of us were relieved we had the room to think here, relatively unbothered by people. 

When I'd read the posting about the cat we wanted to visit, I neglected to read the part about his weight. We walked into his room expecting a small, sleek tabby that was probably still a teenager and were instead greeted by 15 pounds of friendship. This was the largest cat I'd ever seen in my life—and I had Sif when she was 20 pounds and in the words of a dear friend, "hard to tell where Jupiter ends and the cat begins." This guy was built like he was made to guard barns. He immediately clambered onto Seth's chest and licked his chin, twice. He had the most humongous purrs, wouldn't stop squeaking and rumbling and made very clear he liked us very much. Our cat had found us. It would have been offensive at that point not to take him home.

The sweet cat minder at the ACC asked if we had a name in mind when we put him in a crate. I said, "Yes, Moggie!" Shirley Jackson had a cat called Moggie. Yes, I am aware calling a cat "moggie" is pretty much the same as calling him "cat". The other reason that came to mind was that with his squinty-eyed countenance and white, fuzzy bigness, he reminded me of Great King Moggle Mog from FFXIV. For reasons entirely related to my love of hamsters and Unidentifiable Fluffy Objects, he's one of my favourite characters in the game and an amazingly fun fight. Hit me up if you want to try it. I could do that thing in my sleep.

Moggie is simply the most affectionate cat either of us has ever met. The first afternoon with us, he was anxious about being in a new place. Since he seemed to not mind the bedroom, I tried getting him on the bed with me because it was way more comfortable than sitting on the floor. This was how we spent our first hours together with him flopping about in my arms requiring frequent kisses on the head. He has none of the aloofness of a normal cat. The ACC warned us he was a street cat and nervous about people. It's been more like he's afraid of being left alone. We thought we'd have a week of slowly getting to know our new cat, who would slowly learn to trust us. The first night, he slept between both of us on the bed. He's a restless sleeper. Twice in the night I was woken up by a 15 pound cat hunting my toes under the blanket. I reckoned he hit my toes with such concussive force, had they really been mousies, I would have woken up to presents the next morning. He also flopped on my face—that's his thing, flopping mightily upon surfaces—flopped on Seth's kidney, flopped on Seth's head, flopped on my head, flopped into my arms and kicked both of us every time he flopped one way or the other. Neither one of us humans slept very well that night. But our cat was fine. Since then, he has learned that we spend a lot of time sitting on couches playing video games, so the highlight of his day is to flop upon us after licking our chins and bumping heads. That's how we wake up every morning by the way, with a cat licking our chins and rubbing against our face. It makes me suspect Moggie spent part of his childhood being raised by dogs. I haven't had anything so enthusiastic about rubbing faces with me since I last had a dog.

He's a very loving cat but not too bright. I've tried to introduce him to concepts like hunting for treats around the house. Sif really had about two brain cells to rub together herself, but she was a bloodhound. Dorian was smart enough to follow me around the house so he could eat the treat as I hid it. With Moggie, I realised I had to hide things in simpler places. Like, if the treat isn't right in front of him, it's too much work. He did, however, learn fast that crØnkles probably means food about 60% of the time. Henceforth, every time we open a bag or box or crØnkle, a face appears next to us.

He is also a playful cat. Very quickly we figured out he has the skills of an Olympic jumper. He clearly has a hunting instinct and quite a bit more enthusiasm than either of my previous cats in terms of digging toys out from under sofas and chasing after toys that run away himself. Yesterday, I got woken up by a cat furiously chasing his tail on the bed for five minutes straight. (It felt like an earthquake.) This happened twice. I got so worried I asked Seth if this was some kind of cat illness. Seth: "No, he's just dumb."  

Both of us are still hit with random pangs of sadness over Dorian. Sometimes, we call Moggie by the wrong name. But having Moggie around helps. If we're miserable, he tells us he loves us. He flops into the most luxuriant tangle of feets and tummy or gives us a kiss. We have hope. And he has a family that will most certainly keep him.

Last week, we found out Dorian has low grade lymphoma which is causing swelling in his small intestine. We'd noticed he has been losing weight. Food Inspector Cat has never been a chonky cat, in spite of his self-professed occupation. But we were starting to really feel his spine and his flanks have sunken in. The sample they took shows some of the lymphoma cells might be turning into the more serious form of cancer. We can't know more without a biopsy. We might have a few more months. We might have a year. Seth and I quietly wept at the news, wondering as anyone in our shoes has what we could have done different. It's primarily a quirk of genetics.

It terrifies us to think of Food Inspector Cat slowly dying of starvation. The day after his ultrasound, he hid under the bed and only came out to eat when I offered him tuna juice and broth. With some good fortune, he's quickly forgotten the indignity and seems to trust us again. We and our vet are in agreement that our primary goal is to help him regain weight and retain the highest quality of life for as long as is possible. To this end, we've tried hard to minimise the shock of medication. After trying to get a tiny pill into him the first morning and failing horribly, I've taken to hiding his anti-nausea medication crushed into a teaspoon of tuna. He has an appetite increaser I rub into his ear, which he tolerates remarkably well. The vet helped us compound a chicken-flavoured steroid I mix in tuna and broth. If he takes all of these things well, we'll start him on oral chemotherapy. 

What has heartened me a great deal is that he is ultimately still Dorian. Dorian is the cat who, a day after woozy tranquilisers for testing, hiding under the bed and only coming out for tuna juice, dunks his face into the tom kha gai I happen to be eating next to him. Without asking. He's the cat who starts auto-biscuiting as soon as I gently lift him onto my chest—after lying prone on the appropriate couch, wearing the appropriate bath robe and putting on my arm warmers—and spends 20 minutes marching up and down my arms (just my arms) with great determination. When he naps on me, he has to sleep on at least one hand to ensure compliance. Naps on Seth may involve burying his face in fur while perched magnificently upon his entire torso. Dorian is only a little boy because I insist on seeing him that way.

Right now I am writing on the couch, Food Inspector Cat asleep and melted over my knees. Occasionally passing Seth informs me he seems well-pleased and possessive. There has never been enough head kisses, nose boops, tummy rubs and ear rubs that this cat can be inflicted with and now there never will be enough.