Last night, I met a paranoid little kitten, who, in his panic to get away from me, ran up the stairs and chased himself right into my apartment, and into my room. It took almost an hour of coaxing him out from under my bed to get him out, with many hisses, spits, bites, and claws. The first time I got him, he clawed his way up my neck and jumped off my face. (The wounds are still scratched onto my cheek and neck right now.) The second time I managed to grab him, I took him by the scruff and faced him away from me so he didn’t realize it was a big ugly human holding him. Then, as I carried him out, he took a midair crap and littered the kitchen floor. Stupid, hostile, spiteful little shit. I left him in the area of the trash bin beside the village power generator station, where a bunch of stray cats hold their nightly covens. His mother was there, an affectionate, stub-tailed stray I made friends with a long time ago. I call her Tallis. I have named her bitchy little son Thomas. Because he doubted me.
In other news, I am going to get off this stupid Survivor horse and stop trying to ride the fad, effective immediately. I simply cannot muster up enough interest in a bunch of people with largely abrasive personalities, deliberately thrown together to bicker among themselves and kick each other out of the middle of nowhere, all for a million dollars.
Funniest blog-entry I’ve seen today, from /usr/bin/girl: “Having earthquake. Be back later.“