Dearest, dearest feline, you aren't helping your case; not one jot nor tittle.

Allow me to explain.

Last night, it was discovered that a substance verily like cat urine was found upon the Fox's Lil laptop, Discord. The this was lying next to her previously maligned backpack. Now, the keyboard has lost about half of it's function, Fox feels as if she's losing a child, and O is very nearly about to lose everything.

Some things, not even Fabreeze can fix, though it do come from God.

I knew, I knew, I knew I couldn't force anyone else to put up with the things I put up with from that cat. I think maligning my Imogene (this here 'puter) would push me near to past endurance. So she has to go away. Find somewhere else (HA! I still think.), or be locked up where she can't get at anything, be sedated when she's in heat, be fixed, or be put down. It's better, I think, to deal with this now, rather than when I'm being ganged up upon by three angry roomates. I'm not upset with the Fox for necessitating something I've been struggling with prominently for a good week or two. She at least can think clearly enough to offer cognicent other solutions. I am afraid that between this and the splendid state of dissolution my first year independent has left me in, I am really quite useless. Fighting with my own head for sentience.

So I go to the pet place today and see if there is any advice for me and her... maybe somewher cheap I can get her fixed. If I do that, there's at least one more chance of getting her adopted somewhere that can take better care of her. I hate to admit that my mother wasn't wrong-- how the hell can I take care of the animal when I can't hardly take care of myself? Especially this needy creature.

Take a deep breath, rabschere. It isn't as hopeless as all that. It's not... Dammit cat, pee on that bag and...

Oh bloody hell. I think I'll look into any sort of obedience schooling aussi. Like I can swing that. If not for the grace of Fox, I'd be homeless and starving. Which would solve the problem of O by default.

No, no, no, that's morbid. *Ahem*

Um... I don't know how cheery it is, but I suppose This merits mention. It's Stephen's concession, on the grounds that anyone in my head can use it. But maybe I can get him to leak some of the contents of his journal, FINALLY. Heh heh.

I swear there was something else.

Oh. Why don't you go read This? Laurachere never ceases to amaze and delight me. And this was just frightening fun.

Um... lesse. I have to find shit, get dressed, pet place, more packing of the apartment... I think that's it.

God, what I wouldn't give for a dead nazi right now, of the jagermeister variety. Slurp.

The sword of damocles would make a very handsome plowshare. Or vice versa. We'll see, I s'pose.

<<agé chose>>

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