an antibiography
Kat Suricata (/ˈkæt sɜːrɪˈkɑːtə/) is a medical professional by paycheck and a creative writer by circadian rhythm. She’s a figment of her own imagination: a character still undergoing developmental editing. Prepossessed by prepositions, she leans on metaphors like similes lean on crutches.
She wonders if you’re reading this at all, or if you’ve already started to skim, annoyed by the faux profundity. She thinks herself rather clever, doesn’t she? you ask. Perhaps, she replies, but only because cleverness is easy, and sincerity is terrifying. She’d like you to know that you’re far more fascinating than she could ever pretend. How do you manage it, being so impossibly real? She hesitates, uncomfortable. It’s delightful to meet you, by the way—stilted, perhaps, but sincere in a way she doesn’t know how to convey, so she hopes you’ll just take her word for it.
She is the feeling of childhood road trips, watching telephone poles whir by like a session of self-hypnosis. Her existence is a run-on sentence—ink stains sprawling across pages for want of an editor to cut down her excesses. Semicolons are her native language, though she’s also fluent in ellipses.
Perhaps this fascination with irresolution is why she keeps writing herself into existence again and again, each word both creation and erasure, until identity quits narrative entirely and turns outright larceny. The only identity she’s ever stolen is her own, though if you find it, you’re welcome to keep it. She’d much rather you be in charge of her personality; maybe then, she can figure out what’s left underneath.