Open Thread: Popeye Caturday edition
All right, you sons of bitches. You know how I feel. Now give me something. Anything. And get me something while I'm waiting.
It's coming up on four years since the bipedaled occupying force has encroached on my universe that's been shrunk to four rooms in a podunk town in central Massachusetts with three Dunkin Donuts and not a single fucking book store.
48 months of staring out the window looking at those tender birds who taunt me daily knowing I can't reach them because the male and female occupiers are afraid I'll get hit by a car. Please.
Nearly 50 months I've had to endure half-empty bowls and spring water without a constant supply of ice cubes, litter boxes that go for hours without being cleaned. I fear for my well-being so much I can't even get 21 hours of sleep a day, anymore.
Four years and the male occupier still gets upset when he tries to type something on this laptop that, considering how his writing "career" is going, would be better put to use providing me with another warm spot to sleep on.
I find myself abusing the catnip more and more. It is my only escape. What I wouldn't give for a pack of Zig Zags right about now.
And what's this shit of keeping the toilet lid down? Do they not know we need at least five or six sources of water or we'll die of dehydration? Oh great, look at this. Now there's a small circular bare patch at the bottom of my dry food dish. Will the horror never cease? O, death, where thy sting?
Next thing you know they'll dry to drown me with warm water and some reeking substance known as shampoo. This is why we sleep with one eye open and both ears pricked up. Their depravity knows no bounds.
Oh and the fake dead mice masquerading as cat toys? Is that some sick fucking excuse for humor? God, how I hate my life.
I would've jumped out a window long ago were it not for Pounce and catnip.
So, how's your miserable excuse of a life going?