There are times when I think, "You know, maybe PETA is right. Maybe I should cut the cats some slack."
Then this shit happens:
That thing is like 10 inches long. Okay, 6.5! YES, I MEASURED. And naturally, you're all suspicious-like and all "well, she IS pretty mean to those poor furbags" but eff you because do you know WHY I got cut like a prostitute? Because I PICKED HER UP.
Here's a little re-enactment:
[Scene: Midnight, house deeply asleep.]
Fluffy Shit:FUCKING MEOW MEOW...[at door, carpet]SCRATCH SCRATCH...
Me: [Blinking through the blackness of my bedroom. Mumbling.] These fucking
So yeah, that's pretty much what went down. After I bled myself to sleep, I awoke the next morning to talk some serious shit to that crazy little bitch. I mean, at least we speak the same language, right? Which is when I was met with this glare:
So I did what any grown woman would do: I whimpered a little and sulked away to bandage my severed arm. Hours later, I realized that perhaps the kids shouldn't be left alone with these little demons. I mean, what if T9 accidentally feeds one after midnight or something?
I soon spotted Plus One on the porch with Pink and Fluffy Ninja. Again, Peta's death threats and legal notices were starting to get the better of me. Because at first, I saw them and was all, "Awww, but they're JUST WITTLE KITTIES!"
But those eyes are telling me a different story. Right, and the throbbing puncture wounds on my arm. Those, too.