I wrote this entry and watched the fog roll in.
Thursday, Dec. 16, 2004 - 10:39

Here's the deal. I might delete this; I don't like talking shit, and I especially don't like talking shit when there's a chance of being found out. And I don't know, there's a chance that my roommate might someday find this diary. I hope not, that would suck, I don't want anyone I know to read this.

So anyway. I hate her cats. And this was quite the surprise to me, because, as you may know, I've always been a cat person, although admittedly a racist cat person. I told you a long time ago that I don't like long-haired cats. That's not entirely true, though. I've met a couple long-haired cats since I said that, and I've liked them quite fine.

But these cats are of the full-bred flat-faced extra-long-haired variety, and THAT's the kind of cat I don't like.

1. They're ugly. One of them has, instead of a catmouth, a little slit mouth like one of the Mos Eisley Cantina band members:

2. They're stupid. Obviously bred for their superior looks and not for intelligence. They're so dumb they don't even act like cats, they act like battery-powered ottomans.

3. They're mops. This isn't their fault, but when I met them I don't think they'd been brushed in a few days, and, seriously, they looked like dirty mops, all raggedy and dreggy. (Dreggy apparently doesn't mean what I want it to mean. In Australia the woman on the farm told me that dregs were the dirty hangy pieces of wool on sheep. That's what I mean.)

4. They're disgusting. Dingleberries, quite often. And you have to wipe off their eyes all the time because they get watery, and the stuff that comes off is BROWN. It makes me want to barf.

5. Wads of cathair all over the place, all the time, no matter how much you dustbust. Cathair in your hot chocolate, cathair in your eye cream, cathair on your contacts, cathair in your mouth, cathair on the counters, cathair in your plants, cathair on your bed.

6. THEY HAVE FLEAS. Once again, not their fault. Apparently they've had fleas for quite some time. My roommate left a week ago. She'll be back Sunday. She knew they had fleas when she left. She's known they've had fleas since the last time she took them to the groomer. It's gross, it's not all that hard to fix, but she hasn't. There's flea poop in the bathtub and, I don't even want to think about where else.

7. They do bad things whenever they want, jump on the counters, scratch your mattress, pull your nicest plant off the bookshelf and decapitate it and break the pot, and they're too dumb to even know they're doing something bad. I psss at them, which has started to catch their attention, but they didn't even know that they were supposed to be afraid of the psss. And, my poor decapitated plant, you'd think they'd decide that they've done enough to it, but no, they keep eating the few remaining leaves that it has. It was a dragon tree. IT WAS A VERY NICE PLANT A WEEK AGO.

I just found out those Mos Eisley aliens are called biths. I live with a bith.

I need to go shopping, but I don't know where to go.