Kitty Porn

When I got home from the gym this evening I happened to be listening to Britney Spears’ most recent opus, ‘3′. My cat, as per usual, met me at the door. Somewhat delirious from endorphins I decided to personalize the song for my small, meowing friend. Thus the lyrics ‘Are you in?/Living in sin is the new thing’ became ‘Are you grey?/Living with cats is the new thing’. I paused for a moment, concerned that I was becoming that homosexual. You know, the sweaty weirdo who sings Britney Spears songs to his elderly cat. Then I remembered that I had been singing her a Nick Cave song earlier when I got home from work and felt somewhat redeemed. If you’re wondering, the song ‘Oh Children’ became ‘Oh Kittens’.

She is cute as hell, though.

The Grige

A Conversation With My Mother, Yesterday

A yard in Upstate New York:

Mom: Joe Jackson doesn’t seem all that choked up about his son’s death.

Me: Yeah. Those silver wrap-arounds don’t really say ‘mourning’ to me.

Mom: Michael seemed pretty unhappy. That family seems terrible.

Me: True, but I don’t think Michael cares anymore.

Mom: That’s likely.

Me: Michael is long past all this. Michael is fondling the great big boy child in the sky.

Mom: You want more wine?

Me: Yes, please.

Mom: Well you can fill my glass when you go in, then.

In Which I Reveal Myself As A Cat Person, Again

To Socks the Cat: rest in peace you glorious bastard.

Because, Ha Ha, What Might Seem Sad is Actually Perfect

So I am sitting here, wearing a pair of Nike basketball shorts and a really old flannel. The cat is curled neatly in my lap and I’ve just consumed some bread and cheese, then some frozen yogurt Cherry Garcia in addition to some wine. I’m watching my second favorite Star Trek movie (Six, if you’re interested. Two will always be the first favorite) and yes, it is Saturday night.

What I was just thinking now is this: the reason I’ve stopped losing my mind every year or so and why I’ve stopped doing drugs and why I’ve stopped being dizzy with petty unhappiness is because, ha ha, what might seem sad is actually perfect.

In the Quest for the Perfect Body There are Munchos and Wine

I just wrote this long paragraph that made no sense, was wrought with self-pity, and was kinda stupid. I was thinking of keeping it, but the three people who read this deserve better. You hear me? You people deserve better. You deserve a list of the things I was thinking of writing before I got derailed. See below, you wonderful people.

1. I hate the gym but go there a lot.

2. I still think I look the same as I did when I was twelve, except for some alterations resulting from puberty and tattooing. I’m not sure this is valid at all.

3. W/r/t no. 3, I also think I might be suffering (well, not suffering suffering, but still) from some slight body dysmorphia.

4. Why am I writing this? I can feel the curve to self-pity city (fun with rhyming) but really it’s not about feeling sorry for myself.

5. I’m drinking wine and eating Munchos after spending two hours at the gym.

6. Wait, here’s my amusing point! I spend two hours at the gym, come home, shower, then lay down to eat Munchos and drink Trader Joe’s Brand Cheapo Cheap Cheap Sauvignon Blanc.

7. I’m pretty dumb.

8. Ugh! I also have Jury Duty tomorrow! In the immortal words of Cathy, Ack!

9. I like this list.

10. I’ll stop soon, I promise.

11. Okay that’s it.

12. Night!

Today

Sometimes you’re just too tired to make anything into a semblance of sense. Last night I went to buy yogurt (store brand, two for a dollar, because I’m broke again and I’m trying not to feel too dark about it, really) and an old woman was in line in front of me, shuffling through six or seven envelopes, searching for the right one from which to pay her grocery bill of five dollars and change. The envelopes were each stuffed with cash and I took it as a mark of her character that she was insistent that she find the right one. Eventually, the cashier voided her items and started ringing me up. The woman bagging started to remove her groceries from the bag with the intention, I would imagine, of returning the stuff to the shelves for resale. She continued to shuffle envelopes then slapped the bag woman’s hand away from her items. She had found the right envelope. “I knew that I had it,” she said, “I knew the envelope was here.”

At this point, I had paid. I snaked my way around the woman and as I exited the store with my sad and cheap yogurt, she said again, “I knew that I had it. I knew it was here.”

Invasive Grey Things

Judging from my bedroom curtains, it seems likely that my lungs have enough cat hair in them to provide enough material for several socks.