There’s a kitten sleeping behind my ass. I’m drinking Newcastle, and have a kitten sleeping behind my ass. That is what you call a perfect moment. It was a very long day—one that involved entirely too much stairs, and a lot of sitting and waiting. In a high school. I spent my damn day in a high school. There was a lunch break, and when I walked in to that cafeteria, I completely panicked for a second, and thought I was actually a teenager at a new school on my first day. God. What a horrific thought. I got over it quickly, and found myself the cool-kids’ table, and ate a breadstick (it’s all I had time for). I get to do this for another four days. I’m bringing a book the rest of the week (and it won’t be no damn Ken Follett, I’ll tell you that).
Yesterday I had my first visitation rights with the children at the Ex’s. Wikus is taking care of them What’s His Butt is out of the country. Don’t worry, I received permission to actually be in the house, and I didn’t do anything obscene like poop in the bed, or stow some stinky cheese in the blankets in his bass drum (Frijole: Are these items on your list?). I took off my shoes, and was militant in my coaster usage. I didn’t snoop, but I did look at his “purple” studio, which is quite neat and tidy, but really more of a pinky-lavender than a purple, but hey, if he’s happy, then good for him. The kittens actually came out to see me, which was a bit shocking, but more so was how they are no longer kittens, but actually very fat cats. Who are these chunky beasts?
And of course, their gay mommy, the one who must have taught them all that he knows (which is basically to consume kibble as if each bit is the last he’ll ever receive).
I actually cried when Mattress came up and head-butted me on the leg. He climbed in my arms purring and drooling. I miss him so very much. It’s so unfair that I can’t see him daily. Sure, seeing the kittens was nice, but I don’t miss them exactly. They spent most of their time under the bed, and I got to grab Horchata’s tail as he sped by me in completely terror. Such skittish creatures—especially considering that I think they could easily tackle me, knock my homework to the ground, twist my nipples, and make fun of my mother.
I just put on The Sheltering Sky, and my first thoughts are, “Damn, did John Malkovich always have such lovely long, curled eyelashes?” Or is it just the African sunlight?
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