The Tiny Cat is So Weird

She’s sitting in there right now eating the dog food.  There’s an enormous bag of cat food not two feet away, and a bowl of cat food up on the table, but the dog food is where her heart is.  And her mouth, apparently.

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If I Were the Professor…

I’d come over here in a HASMAT suit and kick my ass.  Folks.  I am sick.  I’m running a fever I can get to subside, but I can’t get to break.  Dayquil just makes me sick to my stomach and Nyquil stuffed me up so bad I had to get up and walk around just to be able to breathe.

The Professor helped me yesterday over at the house.  We got a second coat on the kitchen and finished up my room and I got the first layer of gunk off the tub.  And then I was done.

My landlord is coming back over today, at any second, to show another contractor through the place to get bids on making this side match the other side.  He’s due here at any second.  I’m not sure how long I can actually stand outside with the dog.

And my dad’s coming in today to help the Butcher get the garage clear of dirt dauber nests.

There’s so much to do, and all I want to do is sleep on the couch.  I really feel terrible about exposing the Professor to this.

Um.  That’s all I’ve got.  I’m going to try to go through today as drug free as I can, because I’m not convinced they made me feel any better.

In Which I Speak Ill of the Dead

So, David Foster Wallace is dead.

Fuck him.

Philosophically, I believe you have the right to do with your body whatever you like, including killing yourself, if that’s what it comes to.  But, emotionally, when you read that he hung himself and left himself for his wife to find?

Fuck him.

As much as you first and foremost belong to yourself, you belong to other people, who need you, to whom you owe trying everything else first before you give up. To whom you owe the courtesy of, at the least, at the very least, you fucker, not putting finding you like that on them.

My deepest, deepest sympathies to his wife.