  cats are cunts the war is not yet won by either side. the battle last night extended to 12:30 a.m. whereupon after the first time i saw sphinx--and i did see him, he's still here--he didn't show his stupid face again, and i was exhausted, and i WANTED to stay up until 2, i feel like a failure, but i also have to be at bluemound & 76th by 11:00 today for the Part II of Figuring Out What I Want To Do With My Life, and i figured it wouldn't do to be so tired as to appear hungover while figuring that shit out.
the internet also failed me--i spent part of the time (which could have been spent more constructively, i do admit) searching for some sort of live animal rescue chat thingy so i could be told what to do. like i was gonna get some guy with a handlebar moustache and a butterfly net to magically appear. grr. argh. and not to be maudlin or anything, but i have decided that i reeeeeally, if given the choice, would prefer from now on to wake up in matthew's bed with him in it.
it's not that i'm walking around here like the human female equivalent of a cat (which i once told him that i was because both myself and bishop kind of have the same habit of throwing ourselves in front of his path and begging for attention) and crying and missing him, but i...had to smell one of his shirts and then put it on and then hug a pillow pretending it was him in order to fall asleep last night. and even then i still woke up at seven. does that make me codependent? the fact that i have had more than one dream about him (matthew) dying before and the fact that i didn't hear from him at all last night makes me worry, even though i know it shouldn't. and that things are fine and they will be fine and he'll be back soon. but damn, could someone please give me a new head? i really want out of this one right now. soundtrack: triumph the insult comic dog, "cats are cunts" (naturally) (out.
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