Here's me, feelin myself. I love my tattoo. I love my husband. I love all three of our cats, even though they can be giant pains in the asses. They like to sit on my keyboard when I have an assignment due and write &&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
and return to do this many times despite my firm removal of said cats, Maybelle, Robert B Porker (his name is actually Robert B. Parker after Ed's favorite author but he's so huge...) and Sir Lemon, they come back and continue to sit on the keyboard and put their paws on my face and run around my desk like crazy beings and claw me in their ferocious pursuit of fun until I get really mad and yell and put them out of the room and shut the door. Lola cried because Sir Lemon cut her foot and made it bleed the other day. NOBODY MAKES ME BLEED MY OWN BLOOD
Right now as I type this, Maybelle is in my lap. I have my legs drawn up, knees up, and she's wedged in between with her paws around my legs and her head in my vision. Since we had Maybelle fixed, she's grown fat as a seal. Her head is tiny and her belly is huge and round. She's also kind of bitchy now. Menopaws.
In other animal news, we are babysitting Dakota's puppy, Kaytee, while he visits his friend who just had a baby. His first friend to have a baby. Ah.
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