I Have a Bruised Ass

Hey WordPressians! I think this post might be full of profanity, so buckle up barf-breaths!

Friday I went to roller derby tryouts and fell on my ass a whole bunch. By “a whole bunch” I mean a fuck-ton. That’s like a regular ton, but with each fall the “fuck” you scream as you land on your tail bone gets louder and more aggressive.

I can’t walk from all the squatting and skating and falling and dying, so I’ve been laying in bed with my cat, Maisy. She says hi.

In other news, I haven’t washed my sheets in a few weeks because I’m gross. Maisy says it smells like shit in here, so I’m thinking I might open a window and spray some Febreze on my bed until I can make it down to the laundry room.

I also bought a new notebook to write all my dysfunctions in. Here is a quote from Thursday, which I found to be a particularly raw moment. There was a lull at work.

Thursday: “I’m fucking dysfunctional today because I’m thirsty and it’s cold outside. I just want to fucking leave. I’m thirsty as fuck and I want an iced tea. I can’t wait to have a soda later but I’m irritated because glasses keep slipping of my goddamn face and my fucking hands are sticky, and I don’t even know why. I just want an Oreo smoothie and peace the fuck out and read a book and drink a coke.”

Charming and coherent. But I believe in the expelling of negative energy into a notebook before having a meltdown in public. I have my own minor internal tantrums, so it’s nice to get them out before I talk to you darlings (or before I drive my car through a Denny’s).

Until then kids, I hope you’re having a lovely weekend with your supple, non-bruised, sweet little asscheeks.

Cats

As I’m waiting for my hair straightener to reach white dwarf temperature levels, I’ll tell you a tale about how me and my cat were handcuffed together. This is our story.

Okay, so we weren’t “handcuffed” per say, but let me paint this rolling landscape for you. When I got home from work today, I wanted nothing more than to face plant onto my couch and recover from the last 9 hours spent without break (and without feeding my kitty faces). I walked in, turned off the alarm, and  saw Litty, my 14 year-old princess tabby, sitting like an angel from Kitten Heaven. Before I even had time to dive underneath the couch cushions, I was distracted by her soft fur, her big whiskers, and her cute meow-face. Naturally, I cooed at her and slung her over my left shoulder. She gripped her furry fingers into my shoulder blade as I scooped her bum in my hand. I was Rafiki and she was my Simba. That went on for about 30 seconds until the music stopped and  I hunched forward so she could help herself down.

Then disaster struck. One of her  jagged little claws snagged  in my H&M nine dollar pullover. A familiar tale that has only ended in peril.

I set my elbow on the arm of the couch, so she didn’t have to dangle from my shoulder, like Rose on the back of the Titanic. I knelt, she sat, staring at each other like arm wrestlers do before the match starts. Now normally, a stuck claw can be relieved by simply holding the kitty’s paw and pulling the shirt away from it. But your cat isn’t Litty. What should have been a quick fix was a seven minute foray in a Chinese finger trap hell. She pulled, I pulled, she pulled, I pulled. An intense tug-of-war. The minutes passed and I began to wonder who would die first. Would my mom come home to me laying lifeless on the floor, Litty sitting on my dead face?  I tried desperately to grab her paw to release us, but when I touched her tangled foot, she slapped me with the other one.

I contemplated taking my shirt off and  letting her keep it, but we were in front of a open window and my neighbor was out standing by his mailbox.

Then came the moment of clarity, I draped myself on the arm of the chair. Litty sat staring at me like it was somehow all my fault. I looked up at the clock, 7 minutes. “We can’t stay here forever, Litty. One of us has to make a sacrifice.”

She looked at me as if to say “Whatever, bitch” and turned to look out the window.

It was my only chance. She had looked away, and I took things into my own hands.

I grabbed her paw and ripped my shirt away and screeched, “WE’RE FREE!”

Her ears went flat and she whipped her head around, staring at me wide-eyed. I did a few victory kicks and said “What? No ‘thank you’?”

She stared at me, farted, and jumped down.

So there you have it. My straightener is sufficiently hot enough to murder curls and you’ve now heard my tale of woe for the day. Did you learn anything from it? Hopefully that love conquers all,the good guy always wins in the end, and that cat farts are the worst.