Really, if you’re reading this sentence, you should go re-read the title and ask yourself if there’s anything you’re about to read that I didn’t already fill you in on.
I was dumping out the mop water at work last night, mere minutes away from leaving and running over to Gucci Giant and making an ATM deposit and buying milk. I love milk. Skim milk, that is. Stranded on a desert island and I can only take one beverage for ever and ever and ever? Not water. Not beer. Not liquid gold. Skim milk. There’s nothing like waking up with a parched throat at five am and drowning it with a long swig of cold liquid goodness, straight from the jug. Remember that big snow storm March 2003? Anticipating — correctly, as it turned out — I would be snowbound for several days (Sunday until Wednesday!), I ran to the grocery store, but though my cabinets were bare, I did not buy food. Nay, I bought four jugs of skim milk. Point is: I heart milk. Anyway, my apartment is totally milkless. I had some ice cream. It’s gone now. My poor, inadequate dairy fix.
So, anyway, I’m horny for milk, and I’m dumping out the mop bucket. And when I say horny, I don’t mean, “I wanna fuck a milk jug.” I just wanna chug a glass of milk. Anyway, mop bucket, dumping, and I splash myself. Here’s how I describe it: it’s like you’re walking around thinking, ‘hmm, gotta pee’, but instead of finding a toilet to pee in, you think ‘hmm, these shorts can function adequately as a toilet’ and then proceed to use your shorts as a toilet. Now, I did not proceed to use my shorts as a toilet, but thanks to the mop bucket, it looked like I had.
Clearly, I couldn’t go to Giant looking like I’d peed my pants. I’d have to go home first, get the laundry out of the dryer (where I’d stuck it and left it running on my way out the door to work), change, and go to Giant, a total waste of time. But again, I couldn’t go to Giant looking like I’d peed my pants. Because I care what people I don’t know think about me.
So I get home, and I grab the laundry basket out of the laundry room, yada-yada-yada, and I bring it into my wonderful, very cold apartment (I forgot to turn off the a/c heading out the door), leave it by the couch, and I go to the bathroom to do my business. As I emerge from the bathroom, I see Guy in the laundry basket, and I get bothered, because now there’s cat fur on the clean stuff. Then he gives me this look I can’t quite place, and starts shaking his ass, and I recognize the look as the one he gives me when I walk into the bathroom and he’s in the litter box.
Apparently, his new litter box is the clean laundry. He goes “piss!” and I go “fuck!”, and the fuck has a couple of reasons to it, primarily because a.) why! the! clean! laundry? and b.) I just cleaned the fucking litterbox! Clean litterbox! and c.) where the eff am I going to get three bucks in quarters to redo this laundry? and d.) no milk for you, Snay.
Thankfully, most of the urine wound up pooling on a shirt I didn’t like anyway. That just got pitched.
Guy was around while I was writing this, trying to play. I gave him a nasty look and he mewled. Right as I was settling to bed he jumped up, wanting some forgiveness cuddling. I swept my leg out and sent him to the floor. Stupid fucking cat: I JUST CLEANED THE LITTERBOX! Why do you hate me so?! WHY?!