Got bad news today.

My dad had to have Mathurin put down.

Long-time readers will remember Matt. (Mathurin's entries, obviously, are tagged appropriately.) He was my first black cat. Got him when I was 14. He's been living with my dad. The old cat was senile and crazy, but it was a happy kind of crazy, so we never really felt it would be ( Read more... )

I should be sleeping. Right? Sleeping? Isn't that what people do when it's 4:30 a.m. and they have shit to do the next day like, oh, give blood and see friends and do art show stuff and paint and write and buy flea treatment for the mammals and feed snakes and . . . and . . . and ( Read more... )

Kee-rist.

Mathurin is going senile, I swear to god. He's always been dotty; even in his youth he enjoyed being spanked, beheaded all manner of wildlife, and in his spare time he would crouch furtively in the closet, diligently chewing the seams of our clothing and all of our shoelaces. You could hear him in there, the quiet creak, creak of his ( Read more... )

For those of you who may be laboring under the misconception that I am some sort of genius, I offer the following account of my day ( Read more... )

Here's the all-purpose Weird Things picture dump, containing some pictures of Mathurin eating a dead rat (which you will have to click on to see, so don't worry), and some random Nazi-related strangeness ( Read more... )

Since you are all far wiser in the ways of cookery than I, I appeal: does anyone know of a good dairy-free apple pie recipe? I want to make something dessert-like to show familial solidarity with the in-laws, but Sargon's dad, Dad the Terrible, can't have milk products. My cooking lore is at a loss, here. Any advice will be much appreciated ( Read more... )

I will spare you the doings of the past few days, all of which would either involve copious amounts of carpet cleaning, weed control, and TMI (not related), and simply cut to the chase ( Read more... )

Now.

Let me tell you about Mathurin.

I got him on a trip to Georgia when I was just barely fourteen. The friend I'd gone to see met me in the Burger King, and produced a squirming, fuzzy bundle from beneath her striped shirt.

She knew I loved cats, see, and knew I loved black cats even better.

Let me tell you, I have seen some ugly kittens. ( Read on for tales of The Eater Of Heads. )