My cat just licked my nipple. I then proceeded to snort toothpaste out of my nose.
Me: Innocently standing in front of the vanity brushing my teeth.
Cat: Hmm. What's this object pointed at me?
First of all, I'm pissed that she waited 4 years to tell me she was a lesbian. Did she think I would judge her? Secondly, I'd like her to go back to her usual inappropriate behavior, like sticking her nasty cat lips on my bathroom cup or trying to lick sweat out of my belly button after a run. Even the times she tricks me into thinking there is a hazelnut on the floor and then laughs when I scream and throw her turd across the room...even then I tell myself that this is how normal cats entertain themselves. Or other times when she uses the carpet as toilet paper and smears a 4-foot long poop streak across the floor like Toby in the Stanley Steemer commercial...did I punt her into outer space? No I didn't. Because what else can I expect from someone with 3-inch long ass hair. Really. You'd think I'd be happy, since nobody else has been licking my nipple in recent history.
Nope, not happy.
On a positive note, it makes me feel progressive to own her, since we will probably join PFLAG to advocate for lesbian cat rights. On the other hand, I know it's bestiality when humans molest animals, but I don't know what to call this incident when I go seek counseling for it. Can you go around telling people your cat licked your nipple? No you can't. So consider yourself privileged.
(Incidentally, Urban Dictionary defines turd as: "Generally, a log-shaped piece of shit. Nevertheless, they are also found in coil-shape, mushroom-cloud shape, and even loch ness monster shape.")
It was so blissful to sleep through the night last night. Not because a crying baby normally jars me from a peaceful slumber; I'm nobody's mama. Not because my cat can't figure out how to plug the power cord back into my printer so she can wake me up with the "urr-EEEEER" of her scanning out pictures of her hairy bunghole, or whatever she thinks is so goddang funny to wake me up with at 4 in the morning. No, it was simply nice to not have to blow my nose thirty times or wake up repeatedly from my throat hurting, because that's how I got to spend the other two nights of my lovely three-day weekend. It wasn't even a week prior I had commented on a post entitled, "Is getting sick the way you say "no?" If you can't say no, your body often starts doing it for you." The irony doesn't escape me. I could feel it coming, though. And instead of taking a day off when I knew I needed it, I let the exhaustion seep into my pores until I was so thoroughly run down that my body made the decision for me. Time off got turned into misery, followed by recovery. Yaaay, life. The thing is, there was nothing uniquely taxing about the past month. No 5-alarm crisis at work, no mountain of tasks taunting me at home. The string of seven dentist appointments and mention of the word "root canal" on my uninsured teeth? Sure, that was a *tad* stressful. Helping my mom move the past three weekends? Not my usual downtime for relaxation. But truly? It doesn't take much more than the normal day-to-day shit of life to wear me down. Cleaning the bathroom and buying groceries and running mundane errands: this is the crap that does me in. The required pace of life + my introverted personality = disaster. I'm not sure I get a choice in the matter, but unfortunately the mad rush of our society just isn't working for me. There are people that thrive on constant action - and interaction - but I'm not one of them. I figured out a long time ago that I was an introvert; unfortunately, that didn't include figuring out how to manage my own needs. I'm starting to notice that, if I don't have at least one day a week where I don't have to go anywhere, do anything, or see anybody, I just can't function. Well...to be correct, I DO function, but in a far bitchier manner in which I resent all the time I should be unplugging from the demands of life. (This is another reason to be thankful I don't have children, because I would never get a break.) I used to read Gone With the Wind and fantasize that one day I'd be out in the country with miles of green and my big wraparound porch, where I'd be lazing on my little wooden porch swing. Is it too late to marry a farmer?
If you'll excuse me, I have to go pretend I don't hear scratchy noises causing mi gato to stare cock-eyed at the wall for the past hour. (Note: for the love of all things holy, do not ever do a google image search on "cock-eyed.") I think the correct way to describe it would have been: with her head cocked to one side. But the process of verifying that fact has left me with a horrifying visual disturbance. Now be quiet and don't question my title ever again.