Saturday night catblogging: The sign of having no life

[sabotabby]

Sore throat? Check.
Fever? Check.
Urge to be home on a Saturday night even though my meeting wrapped up early? Check.

Oh fuck. I'm sick, aren't I?

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In weird news, I got a mass e-mail about boycotting France from my mom's friend. I didn't even know she had my address, let alone that she'd be so stupid as to fall for chain letters. It was rather offensive, containing a gratuitous diss against "the Arab countries" who export "just oil and hatred," and I did consider responding, but I figured it wasn't worth my while.

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I also feel the need to mention that Marinetti was meowing in his sleep—so loudly that he woke himself up—and that his breath smells like centipede.

Speaking of the devil:










Mr. Orange caught a car.


I guess I woke him up.

(I do have a life, by the way. I was doing culture all day—I saw Hosanna and checked out an old friend's art show. I'd recommend seeing both, but Heather's show is over tomorrow, so you're out of luck there.)

Comments

[pir-anha.livejournal.com]

ah yes, it occurred to me afterwards in whose journal i was commenting, and that it might not be iraq-related. *duh*. :)

so much cat luv, though. never enough cat luv. even with undead centipede breath, which i am certain one of mine has had encounters with. late at night she stalks and stakes them. with her teeth.