I am married to a passive aggressive cat

The post title requires a little explanation, but you won't get any of that until later. Because I believe in narrative suspense and shit.

It's the little things that drive people to horrific acts of murder.

For instance, waking up and finding a bowl full of partially eaten home-made curry in the sink.

It was sitting there in my kitchen sink, all the sweet potatoes and spinach pushed to the side on a lovely bed of brown rice like a mute accusation: you tried to make me eat vegetables. 

Clearly, I am going to have to have the, "Dude, vegetables won't make you grow a vagina" conversation. Again.

I am also going to have to be very drunk. Mostly because tequila makes me hit like a girl, and I don't want to end up accidentally busting his pretty face for leaving the curry that I made FROM SCRATCH in my whoring KITCHEN SINK. Seriously, there is a trash bin literally ten feet away. If you're going to spurn my cooking, at least have the decency to hide it under a McDonald's bag like the rest of the civilized world.

And this is why I believe I am married to a passive aggressive cat--because leaving a half eaten curry where you can find it is totally a cat move. It screams, "Fuck you, I hate this. Now clean it up." It also illustrates why I am now opposed to marriage. Because unless you look something like this....

I don't want to deal with that shit. You are just not cute enough. Also, I need to take new pictures of my cat. He's like twice as big as when this was taken. If I write again soon, you'll know I didn't kill my husband. Best get ready for work.

And now for something entirely different.

I'm sitting in the bedroom I share with my husband, my cat and a pit bull. There's a glass of box wine sitting next to me, the air smells like dog farts, and I am trying to figure out if drinking wine in bed with no pants on while writing a blog is an alcoholic thing to do or just a fucking brilliant example of multitasking.* Also I am trying to figure out what to say.

Over half a year has passed since last I wrote in this blog beloved and read by millions. It's surprising how time flies when you're alternating between states of near transcendent irritation and anxiety with a good heaping of a work schedule that could fell an ox and a pay scale that, until recently, made McDonald's employees shake their heads in pity and wonderment.

A lot has happened in the past seven months. Most of it fits into that whole crippling anxiety/irritation category of human experience. For instance, I was working for a while there as a substitute security guard at a high school, and if that isn't a bucket of fucking chuckles I don't know what is. Also, I spent a few months dropping by the animal shelter in tears to not visit my goddamn cat because apparently that whole being visited in cat jail thing just confuses them. I don't know why I was so upset about an animal that I am fairly sure would have eaten my face in my sleep were the rapture ever to come, but there you have it.

Some of what life dealt me, however, was good. My cat was rehomed, likely because the shelter people were sick of dealing a deranged woman crying in the hall outside of Witzie's room. I got a new job that doesn't make me want to reenact Leaving LasVegas. And I joined a roller derby team. Because nothing works for crippling anxiety quite like careening around on a goose shit slick track at breakneck speeds.

I love it.

So that's all the writing I have in me right now. You can go away. Unless you were reading this blog for the clown porn. In which case, sorry. I just put that in the labels to screw with people googling clown porn. It seemed funny at the moment. I don't actually have anything on clown porn here.**

*Answer: It's a fucking brilliant example of multitasking, of course.

**Please don't send any. I was raised Catholic, y'all. Not that I believe in that shit. But guilt is just like radioactive waste. I'll be dead ten thousand years and still feeling guilty about something I said when I was fourteen.