I’m in this crazy-good writing space, but I have no idea what to write. The blank page is staring at me, so I just started typing in order to stop seeing so much intimidation. The house is empty and quiet, save the occasional request to act as cat staff.
(enter inner monologue)
Cats. Let’s write about cats.
You’re hilarious when you talk about cats.
Am I?
Well, we’re about to find out, now aren’t we?
I suppose so. What is there to be written about cats that crazy ladies haven’t already plastered all over the Internet? And I’m not talking about the superb ones. I’m talking about the ones about the cats themselves, as if they are the most beautiful specimen out of about, what? Sixty million on earth? They’re not even funny. They’re just humble brags.
You do that a lot.
I know.
You don’t have anything to say about it?
No, I’m choosing to ignore your premise entirely.
Seriously, you are appearing for a possible audience much bigger than national television, and this is what we’re doing?
Yes, this is on the Internet right now.
You’re not a very good show.
Change the channel, bitch!
Back to cats.
Dodger came from the Oregon Humane Society. I got him on my birthday. He was a gift from my mother (I asked her for a cat, she didn’t just surprise me).
Geez, that’s handy. You have to get ready for a pet. Otherwise you might forget you have one, you jackass.
I’m not the typical cat owner. They exist for my amusement and they are not my children. They are cats.
You mean, like, dress them up?
You’re giving me ideas.
They’re total assholes. They kind of deserve it.
Dodger is the only cat chill enough to sit still. In fact, he’ll just lay there like a stoner on a two-week bender.
That’s because he’s The Dude.
The Dude abides.
In your cat?
Yes.
Put him in a bathrobe and take a picture of him next to a White Russian.
That’s not new. We thought of that last Halloween.
I’m recycling material.
You do that a lot.
Don’t start.
Ok, then back to cats. We haven’t talked about Minerva.
Ohhhh, yes. What do we say about Minerva?
She is the evil bitch queen and we hate her a little bit.
For the love of God, why?
Her litter box can’t even be used once before she starts shitting on the carpet next to it.
You’re about to get a lot of mail.
You’ll probably get Dooced™ from your own effing blog. Am I right or am I right?
This aggression will not stand, man.
Are you high?
No. That’s the crazy part. I’m just like this.
Seriously?
Seriously.
See, we just did that thing from Grey’s Anatomy.
I love Grey’s Anatomy?
Why did you put a question mark on that?
Because I watched it until it got boring and I didn’t know anybody, anyway.
A few are still there.
Did you know Chandra Levy went to HSPVA?
No she didn’t. You were just talking about Grey’s Anatomy and you confused Chandra Levy for Chandra Wilson.
Who’s Chandra Levy?
You are fucking kidding me. Chandra Levy was that girl linked to Gary Condit.
Remember when we lived in DC and we walked by Tryst?
Yes, I’m an idiot.
Constantly.
Well, excuse ME, your highness. Anything else I can get for you?
Beulah, peel me a grape.
Go fuck yourself.
Stories That Are All True 