2017 Revelation

Holy cow. It’s actually 2017. I’m still alive and well after participating in the holiday decathlon. I see you are too. Congratulations.

The world of news can wait a few days. Given the state of our politics, I have a go-to story practically everyday if I get lazy. I’d like to assess the previous year’s carnage before I do whatever it is I’m about to do to 2017. So let’s talk about the disaster that was Mariah Carey’s New Years performance my decision to get a cat.


Holiday Decathlon (noun): a ten course meal that starts with dessert, ends in a coma, and in the middle is a bunch of stuff I don’t remember.


What I Know
I know that while my cat, mocha (yes, she’s mocha colored), may think she’s the greatest thing since sleep was invented, she has in reality plummeted her likability score by deciding that my bed mattress a customized trampoline. I also know, however, that I am too big to retaliate in the same way. Instead, I grabbed her TOY MOUSE (I told you, no politics this time) by the tail and flung it across the room. At which point, Mocha did nothing. She stared as if to say, “I’m a celebrity, people let me do what I want.” What a trendsetter.

What I think
I think this cat is a freaking nightmare adding plenty of joy to my life (she’s watching me), and she will reward my service by appointing me HUD director of the apartment in due time. This, of course, comes with the specification that I don’t get another cat. Can you imagine my devastation…

What I do
I do nothing but watch in disbelief as she bites every single thing in my apartment. God forbid she act like any other cat and scratch stuff. Then I know the solution is to give her an incredible amount of drugs and trim her claws. But nope, the Munch-asaur bites (in order of preference) rubber things, plastic things, metal things, fabric things, and her food. I’m just glad she hasn’t starting munching human things. Wanna come over for dinner?

 

Spread the good news,
PW

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