Saturday, August 4, 2007

Separated At Birth



Friday, August 3, 2007

My veternarian can suck it.

If you're the kind of person who doesn't read post titles, allow me to repeat:


I am so sick of bringing my animal in and getting yelled at.

You're not brushing him enough. You're feeding him the wrong food. You should buy this organic shit that costs $39 dollars for a 2 lb bag and I will look at you like a cannibal who practices incest should you show the slightest hesitation.

I realize there are ways I could improve as a cat mother. But the fact that I'm even bringing the little fucker in to your establishment already puts me in a better position than 99% of people out there.

He's neutered. He has his shots. I didn't have him declawed, and thus have to had to give up on my dream of owning awesome wicker furniture like the kind Jack and Crissy have on Three's Company. I got him as an adult. I didn't buy a kitten from a huge chain store that acquires animals from dubious sources and subsequently give it away because the litterbox doesn't match my Crate & Barrel furniture. He's fat because I GOT HIM THAT WAY and I don't understand why, after 5 times in 5 visits, you still haven't managed to absorb that story.

I just gave you $150 dollars for 15 minutes of work. There are people who DOUSE CATS WITH GASOLINE AND LIGHT THEM ON FIRE. Can I get a little credit? Just a little? Thank you, Dr. Doolittle. You can go back to painting watercolors of your Bichon Frise or whatever it is you do in your spare time.

Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Eagle. Then Penis.

Third day in new apartment. I'm supposed to be nesting but I don't wanna. I've unpacked enough that I can go to work without looking like I belong in a methadone queue but no so much that I have to stop using paper plates and start doing dishes.

Partially broke up with shrink today. I'm going to go every other week instead of weekly. This is good. I'm out of stuff to talk about. The big problems have gotten better and now it's just disjointed bitching.

Rush hour yesterday there was a penis show on the F train. I was sitting across from this guy and happened to glance at his crotch (AS IS MY RIGHT AS AN AMERICAN CITIZEN) and there was his hard-on, peeping out of his shorts. Denim shorts. Long denim shorts. BERMUDAS. Ugh.

He had a newspaper held up in front of him all straight-backed and proper, like he was the guy in the comic strip on the crapper or something.

When he saw I saw he just gave this grody pedersmile and I knew it wasn't like when Grant Robinson sat across from me in French II and was wearing boxers with Umbros and I saw his balls and they were red and had long blonde hairs and I told him I could see his balls because I wanted to embarass him because he was a popular dickhead who always teased fat girls. This was on purpose.

I moved to the other end of the car and got off at the next stop. I wanted to say something to the other passengers like "OMG. Did you just see the penis show?!" but I figured that's what Penis Show wanted so why give it to him.

Whoa. I just had a bad thought. It's been a while since I've had sex. Penis Show technically counts as the last wang I've seen in person. I need to go somewhere and look at wangs. Cleansing wangs. A lot of them.