Why There Will Never Be a Tiny Cat Pants Orgy

Ahem.

Some of you may recall that I did a little housekeeping not two days ago and that I specifically said “let me know if any links aren’t working or if you should be here and you’re not.”

Hanni, Cabbit, Tequila Red, what if I’d sent out invitations to the Tiny Cat Pants orgy and just invited everyone to the right over there? I would have missed y’all and we’d be worse off for it.

Kleva, your link wasn’t working. That’s almost worse. Imagine my many extremely attractive sexually adventurous talented and skilled readers all a little distraught because they were expecting you and you never got your invite.

Okay, I’ve got y’all hooked up now and I’m still keeping an eye out for anyone else who’s linking in but too shy to ask for a link back out.

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Animals

1. “Look around nature. You don’t see any ugly tigers. You know what that means? Everyone can get laid.”–The recalcitrant brother. No, I don’t know what tigers have to do with it, but I’m sure there’s some wisdom in that nugget.

2. I’m a little jealous of people who look like their pets. After all, Mrs. Wigglebottom is long and lean and sleek and cute. I am neither lean nor sleek, though I think I’m cute, in my own way.

But today, the Professor said that I was just like Mrs. Wigglebottom, that I get a hold of something–like Mrs. Wigglebottom gets a hold of her slimy orange conk–and shake it and prod it and nibble away at it until I have everything out of it.

I think the Professor was likening herself to the chew toy, which I don’t know if I agree with, but it made me happy to think that I do bear some resemblance to that happy girl curled up at my feet.

3. Finally everyone is gone. The recalcitrant brother is gone. The parents are gone. The Butcher is at work. I am crying. Not because I’m lonely or sad, but because this fucking ape that carries my brain around in its head has had enough. It is tired and worn out and is lonesome* in a way that being around other people only exacerbates.

Actually, it’s this, that my body cries without me, that is the thing about it that annoys me most. Sometimes, even hippy liberals need to be righteously angry and put the fear of god into folks, but just when I’m like “Oh, you rotten motherfucker, prepare to feel the full force of my wrath,” I realize I’m crying. I’m not even sad. I’m pissed off. I want to yell and scream. I want to make my point in bold and daring ways, but there they are, those tears that say “Don’t take me seriously. I’m just an emotional girl.”

Ah, well, what can you do?

*I think it’s obvious to anyone who stops to think about it that lonely and lonesome are two different things. Lonely is cured by calling a friend or something. Lonesome is cured by… what… I don’t know. Lonesome is an existential problem.