back in the water where I learned to swim

March 27, 2013

I am so fucking tired of living in one apartment with two cats. This probably works out just fine for some people sometimes, but this particular apartment, while lovely in every way I have yet to discover except that the dishwasher makes dying wildebeest noises, is not having such a great time of it. It’s not the apartment’s fault, the apartment tries; it’s the damn cats.

One of them is little and squickety and has her daft head on completely damn backwards; not in real life, that would be incredibly creepy; and the other is old and persnickety and so goddamn over anyone else’s shit. So they sit in the window every morning and growl at each other; or they maneuver for placement on the people bed and hiss at each other; or they go tearing through the bedroom yowling and knocking other people’s favorite things over. Regardless of just what it is they are doing, however, you will notice that they are doing it in the bedroom, in the goddamn morning, fucking loudly. As a woman who loves her sleep more than she loves many perfectly good human beings, there is nothing that will make me reconsider the validity of your existence with a detached sort of violence more than your proclivity for waking me up before I am ready. Right now, I am thinking about the successes of my forebears; I am thinking of putting an ad on craigslist that enquires, (emotional appeal emotional appeal), after a two month home for two very sweet girl cats, while I sort out the living situation.

I am


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