Part Nine
A feline-related update for cee04, who tolerates all of my nonsensical rambling. (Thank you!)
Previous Chapters
Pussy galore.
It was too much to handle.
Some fuzzy, hissing, four-legged creature had infested my backyard and started breeding. It wasn’t a one-time thing either; I’m pretty sure she had three litters or something-or maybe she told all of her slutty feline friends about the paradise that is my backyard, and they decided to invade like the English.
Bastards. All of them.
“Awwww, look at this wee grey one!” squealed Christopher as he squished a silver ball of fur against his face. “It’s so cute!”
José had already started naming the kittens.
“The grey one can be Alexander! And then we’ll call the black one Hamilton!” he laughed. “Get it, Nick?”
I scowled in response. We were not keeping these putrid creatures.
“We are not keeping these putrid creatures! Haven’t you read Catch-22?”
José’s squealing immediately stopped, and his mouth instantaneously curved downward into a disappointed look that screamed ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, you heartless bitch?’
My face responded with a look that stated ‘Clearly what is wrong with me is that I am heartless bitch.’
In other words, the Diva Sneer.
“Well, we can’t just leave them outside!” Christopher said with about twelve meowing things in his arms and on his shoulders. “They won’t find any food!”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Christopher continued to speak: “And we can’t leave food outside because then they’ll assume that your backyard is their home, and they’ll keep coming back!”
I frowned. “But if we feed them in MY home, then they’ll think that MY house is theirs.”
“But it is their home!” giggled my assistant.
I had never seen him so... what was the word? Usually he was so sarcastic and apathetic. Stupid cats, causing a personality change in my beloved friend.
“Can’t we just keep them until we find homes for them?” José asked. I couldn’t look into those gorgeous brown eyes and say no.
“Fine,” I scowled as I shuffled into the living room, wearing my Zoboomafoo slippers. I donned the Snuggie Sir Chasm had graciously purchased for me for Christmas.
It was such a stupid product-a backwards robe that came in tiger stripes so I could pet my ugly hairless dog while watching awkward pornography or some trash like that. The other employees had gotten bonuses, or shiny paperweights, or new chairs from IKEA. Alternatively, my team and I had received this useless piece of fabric. Perchance I could turn it into a prom dress of some sort, and profit from that. People will buy anything if it’s marketed correctly-hell, my job revolves around that informal aphorism.
While at work, I had engaged in yet another debate with my co-workers.
“You sleep in a Snuggie?” I gawked.
“You don’t?” scoffed Amir. “It’s so comfortable, and it cuts down on laundry! I just wash the Snuggie instead of my pajamas and blankets.”
“That’s just stupid,” I stated bluntly.
“Well, what do you sleep in?”
“Boxers,” I quickly replied, consciously forgetting to mention that they were I Love Lucy boxers.
“It’s fucking below freezing!”
“Fucking below freezing is Eskimo sex, ahahaha!” I laughed because I am so funny and deserve to laugh at my own jokes. Why doesn’t anyone else realize this?
Christopher appeared and chimed in with, “Nick has very strange internal wiring; when it’s cold, he chooses to not wear appropriate garments of clothing, and when it’s hot, he’ll strut about in a jumper. Scientists think he’s of a different species.”
“I still maintain that sleeping in a Snuggie cuts down on laundry.”
“I still maintain that you’re a dumbass,” I said as I got up from Phil’s desk and went to ride the elevator for half an hour since I had seen Sir Chasm approaching with some paperwork.
Then I decided to go to the local mall, since I had to return some frivolous gifts. What was I going to do with a witty t-shirt besides use it as a sad apology for a Shamwow?
Not only is Macy’s a terrible store because of the clothes it sells at preposterous prices, but it is also a terrible store because it is difficult for one to navigate inside it. I always feel confused like Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland whenever I’m in there. They should offer all of their customers a GPS whenever they enter the store-otherwise they might go into a fitting room and end up in Narnia.
Or worse: Nicolas Sarkozy’s bedroom.
After walking around in lopsided circles for what seemed to be thirty-seven days and four nights, I was finally able to return my gifts, and exit that horrible store. I had to get back to work fast, so I decided to take the nearby stairs down to the main floor instead of waiting for the elevator. I started to tumble down the steps until I nearly collided with an idiot who was texting.
On the middle of the stairs.
In a crowded area.
(Oh, prepositions!)
I noticed a visibly annoyed girl frown and snake her way around him, but she was much too nice (or rushed) to comment, so I just assumed that the job was thrust upon my shoulders.
“Is this some sort of new-age social experiment for your liberal arts major, or are you just stupid?”
He didn’t look up. Bastard was still texting.
I whipped out my phone and went back up to the top of the stairs. Then I flamboyantly bounced down the steps and rammed my right shoulder into the young lad, who consequently almost dropped his expensive phone (but I had noticed earlier that his network would have to be T-Mobile, so I wouldn’t have cared if he did drop it.)
“Whoops, sorry!” I laughed. “I was texting!”
He scowled. “Maybe you shouldn’t be texting while you’re on the stairs!”
My lower lip quivered. “Well what were YOU doing on the stairs, might I ask?”
He looked flustered, standing there in his Hollister sweatshirt. I shouted “East coast, bitch!” and wished him a happy New Year before going on my way.
Strangely enough, as I was about to exit the mall, I received a text. Ohoho, and not just any text, but a sext!
From Nancy.
I nearly vomited right there outside of Build-A-Bear. I did not need to see those body parts, all unrestrained and out in the open. Sure, it’s none of my business otherwise, but when I receive graphic images from someone I do not want to be associated with, I lose even more respect for them. I went into the conveniently-located store, took a photo of a timeless teddy bear, and sent that back to her so she could weep and wonder where the hell she went wrong in life. Then I decided that because I was so righteous (in the religious sense, not the 80’s sense,) I deserved a delicious strawberry-banana smoothie.
I swaggered over to the smoothie stand and stood in line behind some kid with an oversized North Face vest around his torso, and a freshly-sharpened Ticonderoga pencil behind his ear. I bet he still lived with his mom.
Since the line was kind of long, I took a look around me just to see who came to the mall. There was a crowd of scene kids all clad in black and neon. They were so ambiguous when it came to gender that I could not determine who was female and who was male. Near them was an unfortunately-shaped girl that looked like a gumball. She was wearing pink on pink and horizontal stripes. There was also a douchebag who looked like he was making out with a possum. It was grotesque. I wanted to staple my eyes shut, but recently someone had stolen my Swingline stapler.
After purchasing my smoothie, I got into my car and drove back to work. I spent the rest of my day writing an expository essay about suicide by defenestration from the ground floor.
When I got home, I went into the backyard and encountered some hungry, meowing creatures. I told those hookers to shut up and get the hell off my lawn. Then I noticed that some hungry, meowing kittens were sitting behind me on the IKEA rug, begging for food. How dare they. This would not do!
“This will not do!” I shouted to nobody in particular.
“That’s not what your mother said to me last night,” responded Christopher, the quick-witted bastard.
The next day I came home with a cockatoo. If my roommates were going to have pets, so was I! I named the gorgeous creature Kirov and strutted around with him on my shoulder. He liked to squawk late at night, and glare menacingly during the day.
Just like mother!
Though, unlike mother, Kirov enjoyed gnawing on the end of a tobacco pipe. What a philosophical bird.
“I wonder, would you ever wear a cardigan and discuss Voltaire?” I asked him one morning.
He tried to peck me in the eye.
“Why do you keep that bird when you know it doesn’t like you?” asked José.
“Because I know he loves me.”
Kirov squawked in protest.
Christopher sighed as he entered the kitchen wearing a Scooby Doo t-shirt. “That bird is so insufferable.”
“Get rid of the cats, and I’ll get rid of the bird.”
Just kidding. I’d never get rid of Kirov!
“You’d never get rid of Kirov,” José stated factually.
“What’re you, telepathetic?”
The weatherman started shouting something about an approaching snowstorm. “Looks like we’ll be getting about eleven inches in our backyards tonight!”
“I bet that’s what he gets every night,” I snickered to myself.
I knew no one would be at work, but I had to go back to the building to obtain some important files. I also figured I’d pick up some groceries.
After gathering my files from work (and gluing all of Phil’s pen caps to his pens,) I got into my car and drove over to the communist supermarket. An insane number of people were inside, desperately trying to obtain the goods needed to sustain life during the days of the snowstorm. I thought that this scene would provide me with a sufficient amount of entertainment. Two soccer moms were battling for a loaf of bread. A young lad was desperately trying to stock up on junk food. I overheard an old man and his wife bickering over-condoms?! Oh, no, condiments.
I wanted to bother everyone, but suddenly the entire scene depressed me terribly. All of these people fighting for food. I needed to do something stupid, since that’s how I coped. One could argue that I was very much like a rebellious, yet fragile, teenage girl.
“Excuse me kind sir,” I lisped to an employee.
Of course it was that communist bastard, who was now the manager.
I hid my glee and continued with, “I need just one important item. It is very, very, very imperative that I get this one item.”
The employee blinked. “If it’s milk, I’m sorry, but we’re all out.”
I shook my head. “What I need is-” (I lowered my voice) “-Hair food.”
“Hair food?”
“Hair food! Dayum, do I gots ta spell it out for ya?” I pretended to fluff my gorgeous lack of curls.
He sighed and led me to aisle fourteen. “It should be here,” he said. “It’s been hectic, so things are scattered all over the store.”
“Thanks, boo!” I gave him an air-kiss on the cheek.
Aha! Just one jar of precious hair food left. I went to reach for it, but another hand grabbed it at the same time as me.
Motherfucking bitch.
I glared into the eyes of my enemy, who in turned gazed into the eyes of his enemy, which meant that he was gazing into my eyes as I gazed intensely into his. Tension! I leaned in for a kiss but he shouted “WHAT DA HELL?” and slapped me across the face with his free hand.
I gasped in disbelief and threw my sequined glove onto the ground.
“I challenge thee to a duel!” I challenged.
“Bring it!” He grabbed a misplaced lightsaber off the shelf and threatened me.
I grabbed two open cans of shaving cream and dared him to come closer.
But first he donned a Dora the Explorer wig, and I a Venetian mask. What conveniently-placed products!
It was a battle of stupidity. Throngs of people, cheering and whooping, had excitedly gathered around us. It was an intricate and clumsy skirmish. He’d thwack me with his pink lightsaber, and I’d counter by fwooshing a mustache of shaving cream on his face. The one time my former days as a grammatically-correct graffiti artist came into use! I managed to kick the lightsaber out of his hand, but he wrested a can of shaving cream from mine. The youngsters had whipped out their cellular mobiles and were recording videos of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the communist manager approaching. The other guy had his can of shaving cream poised, ready to hit me in the face with its man-scented fizziness, but when he pressed down on the nozzle, it sputtered feebly.
I cackled manically, grabbed a kid’s cell phone, and right into it I said, “Ladies, you wouldn’t want this happening to your man.” Then I covered the cell phone in shaving cream, ran outside, and drove away.
I figured that people would post the videos online, and it would be free, immature publicity for the shaving cream. See, the company (headed by my boss’s uncle) had hired my team to create a proper ad for their product, but we were all very lazy, and I decided to leave the actual work to the commoners while collecting the profit.
Take that, communist manager!
(Of course, I would have to apologize and explain and most importantly, have our agency pay the supermarket an enormous amount of money for letting me destroy their property.)
Whatever.
When I arrived home, I hurriedly called Sir Chasm and explained the entire situation to him. He hollered like an orangutan, drove over to my house in a frenzy, and then called his boss, Ms. Thrope. She panicked and told Sir Chasm to call his beloved uncle.
“Call him what?” asked Sir Chasm stupidly.
“Call him by telephone!” cried Ms. Thrope.
“I don’t want to call him that! I want to call him Uncle Theodore!” (When Sir Chasm was worried, he emphasized the correct words.)
Finally it got through to him that he was supposed to send a phone call to his uncle. So he did.
“Hey, Uncle Theodore?”
“HEY HEY!” bellowed his uncle. “I JUST SAW MY NEW AD!”
“Yeah, about that-.”
“I LOVED IT!” interjected his uncle before Sir Chasm could continue. “THE YOUNGSTERS LOVE IT!”
Sir Chasm was dumbfounded.
He was also trapped in my home, thanks to the snowstorm.
“SLUMBER PARTY!” Christopher, José and I screeched at the same time.
I made some hot chocolate and a giant plate of nachos. Then I got rid of the hot chocolate and replaced it with some Hot Buttered Rum. Yes. This was a delicious combination. We spent the rest of the night watching emotional romantic-comedies, and biased political documentaries narrated by English gentlemen. Occasionally Kirov would screech, or the kittens would sit on my head, but I didn't mind too much.
Previous Chapters
Pussy galore.
It was too much to handle.
Some fuzzy, hissing, four-legged creature had infested my backyard and started breeding. It wasn’t a one-time thing either; I’m pretty sure she had three litters or something-or maybe she told all of her slutty feline friends about the paradise that is my backyard, and they decided to invade like the English.
Bastards. All of them.
“Awwww, look at this wee grey one!” squealed Christopher as he squished a silver ball of fur against his face. “It’s so cute!”
José had already started naming the kittens.
“The grey one can be Alexander! And then we’ll call the black one Hamilton!” he laughed. “Get it, Nick?”
I scowled in response. We were not keeping these putrid creatures.
“We are not keeping these putrid creatures! Haven’t you read Catch-22?”
José’s squealing immediately stopped, and his mouth instantaneously curved downward into a disappointed look that screamed ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, you heartless bitch?’
My face responded with a look that stated ‘Clearly what is wrong with me is that I am heartless bitch.’
In other words, the Diva Sneer.
“Well, we can’t just leave them outside!” Christopher said with about twelve meowing things in his arms and on his shoulders. “They won’t find any food!”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Christopher continued to speak: “And we can’t leave food outside because then they’ll assume that your backyard is their home, and they’ll keep coming back!”
I frowned. “But if we feed them in MY home, then they’ll think that MY house is theirs.”
“But it is their home!” giggled my assistant.
I had never seen him so... what was the word? Usually he was so sarcastic and apathetic. Stupid cats, causing a personality change in my beloved friend.
“Can’t we just keep them until we find homes for them?” José asked. I couldn’t look into those gorgeous brown eyes and say no.
“Fine,” I scowled as I shuffled into the living room, wearing my Zoboomafoo slippers. I donned the Snuggie Sir Chasm had graciously purchased for me for Christmas.
It was such a stupid product-a backwards robe that came in tiger stripes so I could pet my ugly hairless dog while watching awkward pornography or some trash like that. The other employees had gotten bonuses, or shiny paperweights, or new chairs from IKEA. Alternatively, my team and I had received this useless piece of fabric. Perchance I could turn it into a prom dress of some sort, and profit from that. People will buy anything if it’s marketed correctly-hell, my job revolves around that informal aphorism.
While at work, I had engaged in yet another debate with my co-workers.
“You sleep in a Snuggie?” I gawked.
“You don’t?” scoffed Amir. “It’s so comfortable, and it cuts down on laundry! I just wash the Snuggie instead of my pajamas and blankets.”
“That’s just stupid,” I stated bluntly.
“Well, what do you sleep in?”
“Boxers,” I quickly replied, consciously forgetting to mention that they were I Love Lucy boxers.
“It’s fucking below freezing!”
“Fucking below freezing is Eskimo sex, ahahaha!” I laughed because I am so funny and deserve to laugh at my own jokes. Why doesn’t anyone else realize this?
Christopher appeared and chimed in with, “Nick has very strange internal wiring; when it’s cold, he chooses to not wear appropriate garments of clothing, and when it’s hot, he’ll strut about in a jumper. Scientists think he’s of a different species.”
“I still maintain that sleeping in a Snuggie cuts down on laundry.”
“I still maintain that you’re a dumbass,” I said as I got up from Phil’s desk and went to ride the elevator for half an hour since I had seen Sir Chasm approaching with some paperwork.
Then I decided to go to the local mall, since I had to return some frivolous gifts. What was I going to do with a witty t-shirt besides use it as a sad apology for a Shamwow?
Not only is Macy’s a terrible store because of the clothes it sells at preposterous prices, but it is also a terrible store because it is difficult for one to navigate inside it. I always feel confused like Alice from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland whenever I’m in there. They should offer all of their customers a GPS whenever they enter the store-otherwise they might go into a fitting room and end up in Narnia.
Or worse: Nicolas Sarkozy’s bedroom.
After walking around in lopsided circles for what seemed to be thirty-seven days and four nights, I was finally able to return my gifts, and exit that horrible store. I had to get back to work fast, so I decided to take the nearby stairs down to the main floor instead of waiting for the elevator. I started to tumble down the steps until I nearly collided with an idiot who was texting.
On the middle of the stairs.
In a crowded area.
(Oh, prepositions!)
I noticed a visibly annoyed girl frown and snake her way around him, but she was much too nice (or rushed) to comment, so I just assumed that the job was thrust upon my shoulders.
“Is this some sort of new-age social experiment for your liberal arts major, or are you just stupid?”
He didn’t look up. Bastard was still texting.
I whipped out my phone and went back up to the top of the stairs. Then I flamboyantly bounced down the steps and rammed my right shoulder into the young lad, who consequently almost dropped his expensive phone (but I had noticed earlier that his network would have to be T-Mobile, so I wouldn’t have cared if he did drop it.)
“Whoops, sorry!” I laughed. “I was texting!”
He scowled. “Maybe you shouldn’t be texting while you’re on the stairs!”
My lower lip quivered. “Well what were YOU doing on the stairs, might I ask?”
He looked flustered, standing there in his Hollister sweatshirt. I shouted “East coast, bitch!” and wished him a happy New Year before going on my way.
Strangely enough, as I was about to exit the mall, I received a text. Ohoho, and not just any text, but a sext!
From Nancy.
I nearly vomited right there outside of Build-A-Bear. I did not need to see those body parts, all unrestrained and out in the open. Sure, it’s none of my business otherwise, but when I receive graphic images from someone I do not want to be associated with, I lose even more respect for them. I went into the conveniently-located store, took a photo of a timeless teddy bear, and sent that back to her so she could weep and wonder where the hell she went wrong in life. Then I decided that because I was so righteous (in the religious sense, not the 80’s sense,) I deserved a delicious strawberry-banana smoothie.
I swaggered over to the smoothie stand and stood in line behind some kid with an oversized North Face vest around his torso, and a freshly-sharpened Ticonderoga pencil behind his ear. I bet he still lived with his mom.
Since the line was kind of long, I took a look around me just to see who came to the mall. There was a crowd of scene kids all clad in black and neon. They were so ambiguous when it came to gender that I could not determine who was female and who was male. Near them was an unfortunately-shaped girl that looked like a gumball. She was wearing pink on pink and horizontal stripes. There was also a douchebag who looked like he was making out with a possum. It was grotesque. I wanted to staple my eyes shut, but recently someone had stolen my Swingline stapler.
After purchasing my smoothie, I got into my car and drove back to work. I spent the rest of my day writing an expository essay about suicide by defenestration from the ground floor.
When I got home, I went into the backyard and encountered some hungry, meowing creatures. I told those hookers to shut up and get the hell off my lawn. Then I noticed that some hungry, meowing kittens were sitting behind me on the IKEA rug, begging for food. How dare they. This would not do!
“This will not do!” I shouted to nobody in particular.
“That’s not what your mother said to me last night,” responded Christopher, the quick-witted bastard.
The next day I came home with a cockatoo. If my roommates were going to have pets, so was I! I named the gorgeous creature Kirov and strutted around with him on my shoulder. He liked to squawk late at night, and glare menacingly during the day.
Just like mother!
Though, unlike mother, Kirov enjoyed gnawing on the end of a tobacco pipe. What a philosophical bird.
“I wonder, would you ever wear a cardigan and discuss Voltaire?” I asked him one morning.
He tried to peck me in the eye.
“Why do you keep that bird when you know it doesn’t like you?” asked José.
“Because I know he loves me.”
Kirov squawked in protest.
Christopher sighed as he entered the kitchen wearing a Scooby Doo t-shirt. “That bird is so insufferable.”
“Get rid of the cats, and I’ll get rid of the bird.”
Just kidding. I’d never get rid of Kirov!
“You’d never get rid of Kirov,” José stated factually.
“What’re you, telepathetic?”
The weatherman started shouting something about an approaching snowstorm. “Looks like we’ll be getting about eleven inches in our backyards tonight!”
“I bet that’s what he gets every night,” I snickered to myself.
I knew no one would be at work, but I had to go back to the building to obtain some important files. I also figured I’d pick up some groceries.
After gathering my files from work (and gluing all of Phil’s pen caps to his pens,) I got into my car and drove over to the communist supermarket. An insane number of people were inside, desperately trying to obtain the goods needed to sustain life during the days of the snowstorm. I thought that this scene would provide me with a sufficient amount of entertainment. Two soccer moms were battling for a loaf of bread. A young lad was desperately trying to stock up on junk food. I overheard an old man and his wife bickering over-condoms?! Oh, no, condiments.
I wanted to bother everyone, but suddenly the entire scene depressed me terribly. All of these people fighting for food. I needed to do something stupid, since that’s how I coped. One could argue that I was very much like a rebellious, yet fragile, teenage girl.
“Excuse me kind sir,” I lisped to an employee.
Of course it was that communist bastard, who was now the manager.
I hid my glee and continued with, “I need just one important item. It is very, very, very imperative that I get this one item.”
The employee blinked. “If it’s milk, I’m sorry, but we’re all out.”
I shook my head. “What I need is-” (I lowered my voice) “-Hair food.”
“Hair food?”
“Hair food! Dayum, do I gots ta spell it out for ya?” I pretended to fluff my gorgeous lack of curls.
He sighed and led me to aisle fourteen. “It should be here,” he said. “It’s been hectic, so things are scattered all over the store.”
“Thanks, boo!” I gave him an air-kiss on the cheek.
Aha! Just one jar of precious hair food left. I went to reach for it, but another hand grabbed it at the same time as me.
Motherfucking bitch.
I glared into the eyes of my enemy, who in turned gazed into the eyes of his enemy, which meant that he was gazing into my eyes as I gazed intensely into his. Tension! I leaned in for a kiss but he shouted “WHAT DA HELL?” and slapped me across the face with his free hand.
I gasped in disbelief and threw my sequined glove onto the ground.
“I challenge thee to a duel!” I challenged.
“Bring it!” He grabbed a misplaced lightsaber off the shelf and threatened me.
I grabbed two open cans of shaving cream and dared him to come closer.
But first he donned a Dora the Explorer wig, and I a Venetian mask. What conveniently-placed products!
It was a battle of stupidity. Throngs of people, cheering and whooping, had excitedly gathered around us. It was an intricate and clumsy skirmish. He’d thwack me with his pink lightsaber, and I’d counter by fwooshing a mustache of shaving cream on his face. The one time my former days as a grammatically-correct graffiti artist came into use! I managed to kick the lightsaber out of his hand, but he wrested a can of shaving cream from mine. The youngsters had whipped out their cellular mobiles and were recording videos of us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the communist manager approaching. The other guy had his can of shaving cream poised, ready to hit me in the face with its man-scented fizziness, but when he pressed down on the nozzle, it sputtered feebly.
I cackled manically, grabbed a kid’s cell phone, and right into it I said, “Ladies, you wouldn’t want this happening to your man.” Then I covered the cell phone in shaving cream, ran outside, and drove away.
I figured that people would post the videos online, and it would be free, immature publicity for the shaving cream. See, the company (headed by my boss’s uncle) had hired my team to create a proper ad for their product, but we were all very lazy, and I decided to leave the actual work to the commoners while collecting the profit.
Take that, communist manager!
(Of course, I would have to apologize and explain and most importantly, have our agency pay the supermarket an enormous amount of money for letting me destroy their property.)
Whatever.
When I arrived home, I hurriedly called Sir Chasm and explained the entire situation to him. He hollered like an orangutan, drove over to my house in a frenzy, and then called his boss, Ms. Thrope. She panicked and told Sir Chasm to call his beloved uncle.
“Call him what?” asked Sir Chasm stupidly.
“Call him by telephone!” cried Ms. Thrope.
“I don’t want to call him that! I want to call him Uncle Theodore!” (When Sir Chasm was worried, he emphasized the correct words.)
Finally it got through to him that he was supposed to send a phone call to his uncle. So he did.
“Hey, Uncle Theodore?”
“HEY HEY!” bellowed his uncle. “I JUST SAW MY NEW AD!”
“Yeah, about that-.”
“I LOVED IT!” interjected his uncle before Sir Chasm could continue. “THE YOUNGSTERS LOVE IT!”
Sir Chasm was dumbfounded.
He was also trapped in my home, thanks to the snowstorm.
“SLUMBER PARTY!” Christopher, José and I screeched at the same time.
I made some hot chocolate and a giant plate of nachos. Then I got rid of the hot chocolate and replaced it with some Hot Buttered Rum. Yes. This was a delicious combination. We spent the rest of the night watching emotional romantic-comedies, and biased political documentaries narrated by English gentlemen. Occasionally Kirov would screech, or the kittens would sit on my head, but I didn't mind too much.