When they’re not putting them on your stuff, they’re putting them in your face.
Again with this shit.
A little privacy, please.
Like pretty much everyone else on the planet, I prefer to be left alone in the bathroom. No one else needs to be present for anything that goes on in there, whether it’s showering, flossing, or doing any of that other stuff that people do in bathrooms. I believe that bathroom time is private time, but of course my dickhead cats disagree….especially Isis. Ironically enough, the only time she ever wants any fucking attention from me is when I’m in there. If I’m in any other room in the house, she makes a point of either leaving or positioning herself so that her back is to me. But god forbid I try to keep her out of the bathroom; any attempt to shut the door against her is met with her dramatically throwing herself against the door whilst yowling.
If I’m in the shower, she sits on the edge of the tub and stares at me. If I’m standing at the counter, she will stand ON the counter and try to climb up my torso. And if I’m on the toilet, this bullshit happens:
Naturally, I had previously come to the conclusion that Isis knows that I am at my weakest when in the bathroom and thus sees it as the perfect opportunity to murder me. Just look at those soulless blue eyes. She’s just too goddamn small and hasn’t figured out how to off me yet. Of course, this theory was somewhat called into question today when Catherine texted me this photo:
Now most of you have probably never been to Catherine’s apartment. Or maybe you have, I don’t really ask what she does in her spare time. Anyway, I can tell you from firsthand experience that this is the view of the bathroom counter you have when you sit on her toilet. So maybe Isis is not plotting my demise while I’m….well, you know what I’m doing. Maybe all cats do shit like this to be obnoxious and to make you feel as uncomfortable as possible when you really just want to be left alone. Either that, or Catherine’s big stupid white cat is trying to take her out too.
Presented without comment.
Caught in the act.
Wake up. It’s Caturday.
In addition to being more worthless than a bag of dicks, my cats are also surprisingly intelligent. But rather than use this unnatural intelligence to do things that would make my life easier (feed themselves, realize that the couch and their scratching post are not the same thing, piss in the litter box rather than on the bed, etc), they have made a conscious decision to use it for evil and generally just inconveniencing me and making sure I never sleep.
I have no idea how my cats have figured out the days of the week, but they sure as fuck know when it’s Saturday. And like all dickish cats, they have adopted the idea that Saturday should be spent catering to their stupid cat wishes. Saturday mornings (or ‘Caturday’ as I’ve come to call it since my cats decided to appropriate the day for themselves) typically begin at some ungodly hour with Jaegar doing this:
Beginning around 4:00 a.m., he will run across the bed at lightning speed every 2 minutes until he knows that I am awake and then he will come do this. And since it is impossible to sleep with 30 pounds of cat sitting on your stomach and kneading your chest, I will eventually get up and check his food bowl where I will find the food that I just put in there 5 fucking hours ago. After dumping out the “old” food and refilling fatass’s bowl with “fresh” food, I will be allowed to go back to bed for approximately 20 minutes (you know, just enough time to start falling back to sleep) and then this will happen:
Don’t be fooled. It’s not gratitude for the cat food. It’s like he’s using his claws to tell me: “Hey guess what? I know what day of the week it is. I know you don’t have to work today. So I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you don’t get to sleep in and that you wake up and pay attention to my fat ass. Because it’s Caturday, bitch.”
GET A JOB.
Open the door, Asshole: Part 2
So you went through the trouble of cutting a fucking hole in the laundry room door and then wasted a whole Saturday installing a cat door in the aforementioned hole. This cat doesn’t give a fuck. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to use it. I know he uses it in secret because his litter box is on the other side of that door and somehow it’s always full of cat shit. But when I’m at home….god forbid he suffer the indignity of squeezing his fat ass through the door that was specially installed just for him. Instead, he sits at the door meowing his fucking head off and staring at me like I’m guilty of some kind of reprehensible animal abuse. When I finally can’t take it anymore and approach the door, he jumps up and paws at the doorknob like I’m some kind of fucking idiot that doesn’t comprehend how doors work so he has to show me. Well asshole, if you’re so smart then just open the door yourself next time.
Look at this smug asshole right here.
I am a fucking busy person. I work out religiously, I take piano and Spanish lessons, I’ve been teaching myself guitar for the past few months, I’m getting ready to go to Europe in 2 weeks, and I work full-time. Plus I have to cook and clean and do all that domestic bullshit too. Oh and now I guess I’m blogging about my dick cats in addition to all that junk. I’m not complaining; I’m just stating a fact and saying that I’ve got a lot going on and it’s rare that I get any time just to relax.
But every few weeks, the stars align and a miracle occurs. What happens is this: I’ve already worked out that morning, I don’t have any after-work commitments or lessons, I actually leave my office at the same time that normal humans do, and Merry Maids (I know, I’m an asshole) has come that day so there’s no motherfucking pile of dishes waiting for me in the sink. I am able to go home and fucking goddamn RELAX. On these beautiful, magical evenings I might watch something I’ve DVR’d or dick around on the internet. But what I really REALLY love to do is put on some pajama bottoms and my oversized Lil Wayne t-shirt and lay in bed with a good fucking book. Reading in bed is ultimate relaxation for me. Yeah yeah yeah how boring, I’m an old woman, blah blah blah go fuck yourself.
Last week I bought a new book that I’ve been dying to read but haven’t had time to start….until the stars aligned and I actually didn’t have shit to do last night. So, I made myself a hot toddy, put on my loungewear, and got into my big comfortable bed ready to embark on a new literary adventure. I was halfway through the prologue when this bullshit right here happened:
Meet Isis. You might be thinking to yourself, “Oh what a sweet kitty. She just wants to lay on her human and love and be loved.” THAT’S BULLSHIT. This cat is a hate-filled demon bitch. Her purpose in life is to get between you and any joy you might find in life….in this case, quite literally. She saw I was reading. She knew what I was doing. And she purposely laid on me in such a way that I could not see my book. So you’re saying, “Alright, so the cat is kind of a dick, but just move her and go about your business.” Yeah, great fucking idea. Here is how that typically plays out:
Unfortunately the iPhone doesn’t quite pick up the demon growl that was issuing forth from the bowels of Hell itself via this damn cat. But you get the idea. This scenario played itself out about four more times before I gave up and went to sleep after only reading seven pages. And I KNOW she was being a douche on purpose because she was on my chest when I turned off my lamp; approximately fifteen seconds after total darkness, she got off of me and vacated the bed never to return…..until 3 a.m. when I woke up to the sound of her retching up a half-digested silk leaf on the cover of my new book. Well-played, you fucking bitch.