Did I mention that I have now inherited yet ANOTHER cat due to my sister's house burning to the ground?
(Bitch loves purses almost as much as I do.)
This one? She's antisocial, chubby, and smells like smoke.
Yet I still love the shit out of her. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME????
Due to her overwhelming odor in the first few days, we named her Bakine. As in, "Bacon". She's all hickory-smoked and such. Is that cruel? I don't really give a fuck. She's a cat. I love kitties. I give them stupid names- just ask T.J O'Pootertoot and Troubleman. Such is life. Live with it.
And for the record, if you're wondering where I am or what I'm up to these days, just follow the scent of cat litter and look for the girl whose forearms look like she recently escaped from a Taiwanese torture chamber. I'll be the one who looks like she needs sleeves, FYI. I have no life beyond scooping litter-covered turds, it seems.
Pray to the baby Jeebus of the sacred used cars for my soul, will you? I think I need it this time.