ARGH: A Story About Forgiveness.

This morning, like most of my unemployed mornings, I woke up super late and watched Seinfeld for an hour while getting dressed and ready. While applying crap-tons of makeup onto my face, I thought about purchasing bus tickets to see the Vans in Boston, moving the black shirt I have sitting out in the dining room to the hamper, having breakfast at N&Wu, needing to text Lauren about dinner at some point, buying new liquid eyeliner, figuring out what NARS stands for if it stands for anything at all, finishing the last 527 pages of that Franzen book later, charging my laptop in case I decide to go to Hungarian, and for all you labor department people out there, finding a job because that is also very important, if not the most important of all the things that I need to be doing, yes--my brain is just full of thoughts on everything all-the-time-always-about-everything-all-the-time like nobody's business.
But then suddenly, breaking my usual routine, a smell... I was in the dining room when struck with a pungent, noxious stink. I checked the litter box but it was clearly clean and empty. I walked around sniffing the air, wondering, "where the fuck is that smell coming from?"

Like a hound dog I scampered all over the apartment determined to identify the source of the offensive odor. For a moment, I entertained the idea that it was a metaphorical manifestation of my unemployed uselessness. In an overly dramatic manner, the universe was trying to tell me that my lazy-ass lifestyle is deplorable. Then, I crept toward the hallway leading to the front door. Suddenly, there it was... next to my precious shoes... my precious, precious shoes...

Bio-terrorism!

I screamed for Josh to come "help" me clean it up--or if we are not speaking in code, "clean it up entirely". A LOT OF POOP!!! EW!!! I knew exactly who the culprit was, no doubt about it. Luna-cat is far too concerned with hygiene to ever do such a thing, but Sri-cat, well, Sri has a history of vile shenanigans. Without any signs of remorse, Sri watched me run around the apartment, my arms flailing with anger and repulsion (like those wacky advertising wind dancers in front of car dealerships). Perfectly aware of the limits to his intelligence, I lectured anyway. I was so mad! It was obvious that he was trying to poop inside my brown heels (Oh, Sri, you are a clever color-coordinating schemer) because both shoes had fallen over, most likely from his attempt at squatting on them. I have some baller detective skills.

Once I said everything I had to say and made all of the ridiculous groundless threats I had to make--"What's wrong with you? I'm going to put you out on the fire escape! How'd you like that? Why did you do this? Are you mad at me? ARGH! There are plenty of cats out there who would kill to live like you! I fed you a can of tuna in addition to dry food two nights ago! CHUNKY TUNA! Next time I am going to spray bottle you! SPRAY BOTTLE!!!"--I gathered my things in a rage and left. The walk to N&Wu calmed me down a bit. As I schlumped down Broardway, Sri was probably lounging in his usual spot behind the door in the bedroom without a clue that I was furious.
I suppose having a cat is a lot like having a kid. He does major-crazy-ballz things, but you suppress the urge to spray him with water from a squirt bottle, and instead, get some coffee, have some sympathy for his cluelessness, and move on because unemployment is short and 527 pages of Franzen is long.