Sleepless

Nov. 21st, 2006 07:19 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
A fine time for insomnia to strike.

Cyrus T. Dog is no more. He shuffled off his three-legged mortal coil late yesterday evening. I'll spare you details of putting a pet down. If you've done it, you know. If you haven't, you don't want to. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared, and yet it was a hundred times worse. I'll never enjoy the feeling of discovering that I am, in fact, strong enough to do things I really do not want to do.

Life is that way. We just get swept along. We don't get many choices. Not about the nasty stuff.

I'm all right, Sargon is all right. I'm just very tired, and sort of raw-feeling. He, I imagine, is worse. Which is why I'm letting him sleep and not busting his ass for snoring so loud I had to get up at four in the morning.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to send positive thoughts our way. It's deeply appreciated. I'd go back and say "thank you" to everyone individually, because I always feel bad when I don't, but that would just get me leaking again. I've had enough sniveling for today, thanks. For now, take heartfelt hugs. You're good folks, and I'm glad you're with me. Honestly, it shocks me sometimes how much of my underbelly I can show you all. I feel safe here. Other people get trounced in their own journals, or flamed. That crap doesn't happen here, and I'm convinced it's not because I'm mean and scary. I think it's mostly because you're a good lot.

I have this desperate urge to speak to you, to just . . . be here, in this space with you. But I have nothing to say. I don't want to be philosophical. I don't want to have feelings or god forbid talk about them. I just want to sit and write porn and smell stinky perfume and maybe go out a little later and buy some hair dye so I can horrify my mother-in-law, assuming I can figure out how to apply it by myself. I want to paint, and watch The Phantom of the Opera, actually, which is what I'll do after I go to the store.

For now, I just love you guys. Thanks.



Them's friends.

Sleepless

Nov. 21st, 2006 07:19 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
A fine time for insomnia to strike.

Cyrus T. Dog is no more. He shuffled off his three-legged mortal coil late yesterday evening. I'll spare you details of putting a pet down. If you've done it, you know. If you haven't, you don't want to. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared, and yet it was a hundred times worse. I'll never enjoy the feeling of discovering that I am, in fact, strong enough to do things I really do not want to do.

Life is that way. We just get swept along. We don't get many choices. Not about the nasty stuff.

I'm all right, Sargon is all right. I'm just very tired, and sort of raw-feeling. He, I imagine, is worse. Which is why I'm letting him sleep and not busting his ass for snoring so loud I had to get up at four in the morning.

Thank you to everyone who took the time to send positive thoughts our way. It's deeply appreciated. I'd go back and say "thank you" to everyone individually, because I always feel bad when I don't, but that would just get me leaking again. I've had enough sniveling for today, thanks. For now, take heartfelt hugs. You're good folks, and I'm glad you're with me. Honestly, it shocks me sometimes how much of my underbelly I can show you all. I feel safe here. Other people get trounced in their own journals, or flamed. That crap doesn't happen here, and I'm convinced it's not because I'm mean and scary. I think it's mostly because you're a good lot.

I have this desperate urge to speak to you, to just . . . be here, in this space with you. But I have nothing to say. I don't want to be philosophical. I don't want to have feelings or god forbid talk about them. I just want to sit and write porn and smell stinky perfume and maybe go out a little later and buy some hair dye so I can horrify my mother-in-law, assuming I can figure out how to apply it by myself. I want to paint, and watch The Phantom of the Opera, actually, which is what I'll do after I go to the store.

For now, I just love you guys. Thanks.



Them's friends.

Dog Drama

Nov. 20th, 2006 03:51 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
In the words of Warren Peace, "Well that sucks."

Cyrus is bad enough that Sargon has agreed to have him put down, which is a horrible, horrible choice to have to make; sickening, really. But there's nothing for it. He can't walk. He can't even stand. He's in a lot of pain, he's lost about six pounds, and he's not eating or drinking anything. The poor old mutt is miserable. So I've made the calls, and we're taking him in tonight.

I'm feeling low. Not for the dog, but for Sargon, who has never had to do this kind of thing before, and who isn't really the sort of person (like me, say) for whom it comes readily. I'm still not sure he won't back out, though I pray for the dog's sake that he doesn't. I have a different perspective on suffering, having watched family members die slowly. Watching this go on as long as it has -- days that feel like weeks -- really has been difficult for me. My hands have been tied, you see. Cyrus is not my dog. If I took him in myself without Sargon's okay, it'd be an unforgivable breach of trust.

Poor Sargon. I wish I knew how to make this easier on him. On both of them. But I don't. I really don't. I feel sorry for the dog, but at least I can help Cyrus by seeing to it that he is no longer in pain. I feel sorrier for my husband, who I can't help. I hate that this is hard for him, I hate that it hurts him. I hate it.

I hate it.

I hate that all I can do is be there, sit through it all.

Shouldn't there be monsters to fight? Shouldn't there be bad guys to shoot? All I can do is smooth the way, pay for everything and make the arrangements, try to make things as simple and as painless as I can. But it's never simple. We do what we have to do, but it's never simple.

Dog Drama

Nov. 20th, 2006 03:51 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
In the words of Warren Peace, "Well that sucks."

Cyrus is bad enough that Sargon has agreed to have him put down, which is a horrible, horrible choice to have to make; sickening, really. But there's nothing for it. He can't walk. He can't even stand. He's in a lot of pain, he's lost about six pounds, and he's not eating or drinking anything. The poor old mutt is miserable. So I've made the calls, and we're taking him in tonight.

I'm feeling low. Not for the dog, but for Sargon, who has never had to do this kind of thing before, and who isn't really the sort of person (like me, say) for whom it comes readily. I'm still not sure he won't back out, though I pray for the dog's sake that he doesn't. I have a different perspective on suffering, having watched family members die slowly. Watching this go on as long as it has -- days that feel like weeks -- really has been difficult for me. My hands have been tied, you see. Cyrus is not my dog. If I took him in myself without Sargon's okay, it'd be an unforgivable breach of trust.

Poor Sargon. I wish I knew how to make this easier on him. On both of them. But I don't. I really don't. I feel sorry for the dog, but at least I can help Cyrus by seeing to it that he is no longer in pain. I feel sorrier for my husband, who I can't help. I hate that this is hard for him, I hate that it hurts him. I hate it.

I hate it.

I hate that all I can do is be there, sit through it all.

Shouldn't there be monsters to fight? Shouldn't there be bad guys to shoot? All I can do is smooth the way, pay for everything and make the arrangements, try to make things as simple and as painless as I can. But it's never simple. We do what we have to do, but it's never simple.

Bleh.

Nov. 17th, 2006 02:46 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Meh)
Urgh. I'm so tired, and I am afraid I'm coming down with something. Sargon is sick – not, like, really sick, just a little sick. He did this last year, too. Caught something, shook it off after two days, and I was sick on Thanksgiving because of it, and it lingered for a week.

Yeah. Umm. I'm real thankful for your germs, dude. Real thankful.

Worked on my new projects today, both of them. One is a huge panel, and it's really neat to work larger-scale. It's coming along a bit slowly because it's so big; I almost have the design hammered out. It's just huge, and of course I go straight to filling all the space. Instead of making the figures small and self-contained, they're large, and all spread out and tangled with each other.

The box I'm working on is much smaller, so it's going faster. Still, both are pretty!

I insist I'll have pictures of the last one up Real Soon Now. I haven't finished vetting the photos yet. There isn't always time to fiddle with stuff; not as much as I'd like, anyway. And these need to be cleaned up to do justice to the full-on Son of Awesome vs. Bride of Awesome: Massacre at Lake Awesome III: The Return of Awesome.

Okay. Maybe by the time you see it, you'll say "What the fuck? It's not even that cool!" But by then I'll be dying of Venusian Upland Wormphlegm and I will be too busy paddling upriver through my own mucus to give a shit about your disdain. And if you hack on me too much, I'll contage you. That's a promise, even if it's not a proper verb.

Speaking of ill, the dog is being Mr. Fester McFucknut. He will not settle down, he's constantly panting, grunting, shifting, slapping his lips, or just lying on his side staring blankly at nothing. It's pathetic in the most guilt-inducing way. Clearly his arthritis is kicking his sorry yellow ass into next week. I feel terrible for him.

Well, I'd feel worse if it weren't for the fact that he did almost all of that crap even before his arthritis started flaring up. It's not much of a change, really.

I'll note that he is still capable of getting up and being all excited if I so much as touch one link of the leash. How debilitated can he be if he still wants to go for a drag?

Ah, I'm not fooling myself. The poor dumb fucker is on his last legs. And I mean that.

I'd insist Sargon take him to the vet but we both know there's not much that can be done, and at this point with Sargon sick and exhausted from two weeks without a full weekend, I don't think he wants or needs to deal with Bad News. He certainly doesn't need to ruin this weekend by putting his frigging dog to sleep. Christ.

I'm going to go read and hopefully stop worrying long enough to sleep. More tomorrow!

(Hey, I said I'd post every damn day this month, and I meant it!)

Bleh.

Nov. 17th, 2006 02:46 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Meh)
Urgh. I'm so tired, and I am afraid I'm coming down with something. Sargon is sick – not, like, really sick, just a little sick. He did this last year, too. Caught something, shook it off after two days, and I was sick on Thanksgiving because of it, and it lingered for a week.

Yeah. Umm. I'm real thankful for your germs, dude. Real thankful.

Worked on my new projects today, both of them. One is a huge panel, and it's really neat to work larger-scale. It's coming along a bit slowly because it's so big; I almost have the design hammered out. It's just huge, and of course I go straight to filling all the space. Instead of making the figures small and self-contained, they're large, and all spread out and tangled with each other.

The box I'm working on is much smaller, so it's going faster. Still, both are pretty!

I insist I'll have pictures of the last one up Real Soon Now. I haven't finished vetting the photos yet. There isn't always time to fiddle with stuff; not as much as I'd like, anyway. And these need to be cleaned up to do justice to the full-on Son of Awesome vs. Bride of Awesome: Massacre at Lake Awesome III: The Return of Awesome.

Okay. Maybe by the time you see it, you'll say "What the fuck? It's not even that cool!" But by then I'll be dying of Venusian Upland Wormphlegm and I will be too busy paddling upriver through my own mucus to give a shit about your disdain. And if you hack on me too much, I'll contage you. That's a promise, even if it's not a proper verb.

Speaking of ill, the dog is being Mr. Fester McFucknut. He will not settle down, he's constantly panting, grunting, shifting, slapping his lips, or just lying on his side staring blankly at nothing. It's pathetic in the most guilt-inducing way. Clearly his arthritis is kicking his sorry yellow ass into next week. I feel terrible for him.

Well, I'd feel worse if it weren't for the fact that he did almost all of that crap even before his arthritis started flaring up. It's not much of a change, really.

I'll note that he is still capable of getting up and being all excited if I so much as touch one link of the leash. How debilitated can he be if he still wants to go for a drag?

Ah, I'm not fooling myself. The poor dumb fucker is on his last legs. And I mean that.

I'd insist Sargon take him to the vet but we both know there's not much that can be done, and at this point with Sargon sick and exhausted from two weeks without a full weekend, I don't think he wants or needs to deal with Bad News. He certainly doesn't need to ruin this weekend by putting his frigging dog to sleep. Christ.

I'm going to go read and hopefully stop worrying long enough to sleep. More tomorrow!

(Hey, I said I'd post every damn day this month, and I meant it!)

Old Dog

Nov. 8th, 2006 08:32 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Stupid)
The dog seems to be helped a little by painkillers. This is good news. The bad news is that he pretty definitively has arthritis, and there's not much to be done to arrest it. I can supplement him with lots of different things, but it's pretty far gone. Trust him not to tell us until he's almost totally broken down.

The other bad news is that after I dosed him with meds yesterday he felt good enough to escape from the yard and go haring off down the road to play with some neighbors, who came to return him while I was in the shower.

Joke all you want about free shows and how you wish you lived next door to me, ha ha, but it isn't funny wrestling an unhappy dog into the house using one hand on the door, your teeth on the leash, and the other hand to hold up your flimsy pink towel, and you have soap and shampoo dripping into your eyes.

Well, I guess that is pretty funny, actually.

But I swear, whatever the opposite of good timing is, this dog has it in spades.

The arthritis is also making him fidgety. He won't sit still for more than five minutes, and he asks to go out at least ten times a day. It's constant – in, out, in, out. Shuffle, shuffle, kick, kick, snort, snort. If it's about to drive me batshit insane, I can only imagine it has to be a million times worse for him, which is the part that makes me sad.

He's pacing because he's uncomfortable, and is trying to work out the stiffness and/or find a place to get away from the pain. And now that he's demonstrated he can get out of the yard, he has to be on a tether when he goes out, at least until I can get something with which to brace the gate closed.

It's making me short-tempered, and I feel churlish for feeling that way, but as I've said before, Cyrus is not my dog. He's Sargon's. But five days out of seven, my husband isn't the one feeding him, letting him out and in and out and in and out and in, giving him pills, taking him for walks which have now become drags, or grooming him. My patience wears thin. When you add all the other doggy bullshit going on in the neighborhood and my patience for canines as a species is at an all-time low ebb. I hear a dog bark, my stomach kinks itself into a Gordian knot of nausea and tension.

Not a good state to be in when you're trying to take care of an old dog who really does deserve better from his people.

Though I will say this: Whatever his other flaws, Cyrus does not bark.

At least he and I agree on that.

Well, we also agree that Milk Bones taste pretty damn good. I'll be sorry when he goes. Without a dog, I will no longer have an excuse for keeping dog biscuits in the house.

Old Dog

Nov. 8th, 2006 08:32 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Stupid)
The dog seems to be helped a little by painkillers. This is good news. The bad news is that he pretty definitively has arthritis, and there's not much to be done to arrest it. I can supplement him with lots of different things, but it's pretty far gone. Trust him not to tell us until he's almost totally broken down.

The other bad news is that after I dosed him with meds yesterday he felt good enough to escape from the yard and go haring off down the road to play with some neighbors, who came to return him while I was in the shower.

Joke all you want about free shows and how you wish you lived next door to me, ha ha, but it isn't funny wrestling an unhappy dog into the house using one hand on the door, your teeth on the leash, and the other hand to hold up your flimsy pink towel, and you have soap and shampoo dripping into your eyes.

Well, I guess that is pretty funny, actually.

But I swear, whatever the opposite of good timing is, this dog has it in spades.

The arthritis is also making him fidgety. He won't sit still for more than five minutes, and he asks to go out at least ten times a day. It's constant – in, out, in, out. Shuffle, shuffle, kick, kick, snort, snort. If it's about to drive me batshit insane, I can only imagine it has to be a million times worse for him, which is the part that makes me sad.

He's pacing because he's uncomfortable, and is trying to work out the stiffness and/or find a place to get away from the pain. And now that he's demonstrated he can get out of the yard, he has to be on a tether when he goes out, at least until I can get something with which to brace the gate closed.

It's making me short-tempered, and I feel churlish for feeling that way, but as I've said before, Cyrus is not my dog. He's Sargon's. But five days out of seven, my husband isn't the one feeding him, letting him out and in and out and in and out and in, giving him pills, taking him for walks which have now become drags, or grooming him. My patience wears thin. When you add all the other doggy bullshit going on in the neighborhood and my patience for canines as a species is at an all-time low ebb. I hear a dog bark, my stomach kinks itself into a Gordian knot of nausea and tension.

Not a good state to be in when you're trying to take care of an old dog who really does deserve better from his people.

Though I will say this: Whatever his other flaws, Cyrus does not bark.

At least he and I agree on that.

Well, we also agree that Milk Bones taste pretty damn good. I'll be sorry when he goes. Without a dog, I will no longer have an excuse for keeping dog biscuits in the house.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Bugger)
There comes a point where aggravation is almost something solid enough to be throttled.

Sadly, it never fully materializes so you can put it out of your misery.

Things proceed apace. There is glacial progress on the liquidation of my grandparents' estate, but given how I feel about it in general, I'm not going to fidget on the front lawn and say "Hurry up!" The extra time to deal with the unpleasant demise of my childhood memories is certainly appreciated. And even glacial progress is progress. Things will be sorted out to everyone's benefit. At least my grandparents had a will, even if it was an old one.

I'm rounding off another box. Yes, now I'm only two deep in commissions, instead of three. See what a month of taking it easy gets me? Heh. But this one is superior in every way, and I consider it absolutely the pinnacle of coolness. Cooler than all the other cool things I have produced.

Yes, I repeat myself. I realize this. Everything I do is my favorite thing ever. This is how art works. You love each thing more than the last thing. You almost have to, or you'll go mad. If you're not utterly devoted to whatever you're working on, you'll wind up cranky and miserable and suffering for however long it takes you to wrap it up, and that's not a state that lends itself to starting on the next project, or the one after that. In fact, it can make you hate your art form pretty damn fast. So I can be forgiven for some slight overenthusiasm over each new piece.

I'm still saying that this one is fucking fantastic, and the intended recipient will be lucky indeed if she can cram her eyeballs back in their sockets quickly enough to prevent them from freezing due to the emanating waves of frosty coolness. It's mag.

Yeah, there'll be pictures. Of the finished box, not of eyeballs. Yuck.

In other news, our old three-legged dog, who has been officially ailing for quite some time, is reaching the point of creaky and non-functional that leads me to believe that his time is nigh. I'm not broken up about it; Cyrus is really Sargon's dog, and not mine, but I am sad in that I hate to see animals suffer and I hate to think that Sargon might have to make the call to put him down. It's not something either of us have ever had to do, and he's even more ill-prepared for it than I am.

Cyrus has been more needy than ever the past week, and I suspect that he's in pain. He's not eating much, either. We don't know what it is, so he's going to the vet tonight to see if they can tell what's causing it. He's having trouble moving around, which is nothing new for a dog missing one leg, but he's even creakier and more feeble than usual, and his breathing is short and hard.

I also think he's going batty; he seems to forget when he was last outside, and for what, and when we put him out he doesn't always remember to do what he went out there to do. He turns and looks at me like "Was I supposed to pee, or what?" I don't know, dog. I don't know.

At this point I'm just hoping it's something easy to diagnose, so Sargon and I can decide what to do about it instead of wasting more time trying to figure out what it is. If he's hurting, I want it to stop, and I don't much care what I have to do to make that happen. I don't hold with suffering. It makes me intensely broody and intolerable.

Not much else to discuss. I'm busier than I'd like, yet not getting paid enough to make it feel all right. And whose fault is that? I'm afraid it's mine, for slacking. Ah, well. It's work I enjoy.

Speaking of which, I'd best get back to it, hadn't I?

But first: voting!

ETA: Called the vet, and it appears that it's probably canine arthritis, so I'm trying him on painkillers before we take him in to see if that helps. That's at least a simple answer.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Bugger)
There comes a point where aggravation is almost something solid enough to be throttled.

Sadly, it never fully materializes so you can put it out of your misery.

Things proceed apace. There is glacial progress on the liquidation of my grandparents' estate, but given how I feel about it in general, I'm not going to fidget on the front lawn and say "Hurry up!" The extra time to deal with the unpleasant demise of my childhood memories is certainly appreciated. And even glacial progress is progress. Things will be sorted out to everyone's benefit. At least my grandparents had a will, even if it was an old one.

I'm rounding off another box. Yes, now I'm only two deep in commissions, instead of three. See what a month of taking it easy gets me? Heh. But this one is superior in every way, and I consider it absolutely the pinnacle of coolness. Cooler than all the other cool things I have produced.

Yes, I repeat myself. I realize this. Everything I do is my favorite thing ever. This is how art works. You love each thing more than the last thing. You almost have to, or you'll go mad. If you're not utterly devoted to whatever you're working on, you'll wind up cranky and miserable and suffering for however long it takes you to wrap it up, and that's not a state that lends itself to starting on the next project, or the one after that. In fact, it can make you hate your art form pretty damn fast. So I can be forgiven for some slight overenthusiasm over each new piece.

I'm still saying that this one is fucking fantastic, and the intended recipient will be lucky indeed if she can cram her eyeballs back in their sockets quickly enough to prevent them from freezing due to the emanating waves of frosty coolness. It's mag.

Yeah, there'll be pictures. Of the finished box, not of eyeballs. Yuck.

In other news, our old three-legged dog, who has been officially ailing for quite some time, is reaching the point of creaky and non-functional that leads me to believe that his time is nigh. I'm not broken up about it; Cyrus is really Sargon's dog, and not mine, but I am sad in that I hate to see animals suffer and I hate to think that Sargon might have to make the call to put him down. It's not something either of us have ever had to do, and he's even more ill-prepared for it than I am.

Cyrus has been more needy than ever the past week, and I suspect that he's in pain. He's not eating much, either. We don't know what it is, so he's going to the vet tonight to see if they can tell what's causing it. He's having trouble moving around, which is nothing new for a dog missing one leg, but he's even creakier and more feeble than usual, and his breathing is short and hard.

I also think he's going batty; he seems to forget when he was last outside, and for what, and when we put him out he doesn't always remember to do what he went out there to do. He turns and looks at me like "Was I supposed to pee, or what?" I don't know, dog. I don't know.

At this point I'm just hoping it's something easy to diagnose, so Sargon and I can decide what to do about it instead of wasting more time trying to figure out what it is. If he's hurting, I want it to stop, and I don't much care what I have to do to make that happen. I don't hold with suffering. It makes me intensely broody and intolerable.

Not much else to discuss. I'm busier than I'd like, yet not getting paid enough to make it feel all right. And whose fault is that? I'm afraid it's mine, for slacking. Ah, well. It's work I enjoy.

Speaking of which, I'd best get back to it, hadn't I?

But first: voting!

ETA: Called the vet, and it appears that it's probably canine arthritis, so I'm trying him on painkillers before we take him in to see if that helps. That's at least a simple answer.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Fish. I realise I post pictures of her a lot, but that is only because she is the single most good-natured and consistently adorable cat I have ever owned.

Just when I thought I had reached the nadir of depression -- people dying in a drowning city, bills to pay, gimpy leg -- I turn to port and see this.


I had my suspicions that Fish likes to snuggle with our stinky old three-legged mutt Cyrus, but I never thought I would actually catch them doing it. Ever.

As you can see, I was wrong.

Then it gets REALLY cute. )


Just to make sure you don't miss the expression of kitty bliss.

I think I may very well die of the cuteness. You all are coming with.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Fish. I realise I post pictures of her a lot, but that is only because she is the single most good-natured and consistently adorable cat I have ever owned.

Just when I thought I had reached the nadir of depression -- people dying in a drowning city, bills to pay, gimpy leg -- I turn to port and see this.


I had my suspicions that Fish likes to snuggle with our stinky old three-legged mutt Cyrus, but I never thought I would actually catch them doing it. Ever.

As you can see, I was wrong.

Then it gets REALLY cute. )


Just to make sure you don't miss the expression of kitty bliss.

I think I may very well die of the cuteness. You all are coming with.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
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.


Item One: I have a cold of some kind.

This is utterly stupid, as it's topping one hundred degrees outside with fair regularity. For you people who don't measure temperatures in American, one hundred degrees is about the temperature at which Naamah stops functioning. Coincidentally, it is also the internal temperature at which I appear to be running. Aren't fevers fun?

On the bright side, I've always been one of those lucky bitches who gets really cool fever dreams, and when I have a fever I write extremely well, so it's not all bad news.


Item Two: I am going to murder my cats.

Fish and Mathurin don't give a shit about each other, or any of the other cats. They are not the source of the problem. It's the other two. You know. The two I've had longest and who should, by rights, know better than to fuck with Mommy when Mommy does not feel well.

Tazendra has taken it upon herself to hiss and moan every time she sees any of the other three, and Sif has gone feral, and will attack any of the others who come within ten feet of her. Yesterday she attacked the dog.

Let me make this clear. The dog is, by my math, seven and a half times her size. And yet she latched onto his snout like one of those goddamned Garfield window-hangers and lacerated his snout, only narrowly missing his eyeball. The provocation? We have no clue, as the dog generally leaves the cats alone and will not attack even if provoked. Obviously. She scratched the crap out of him and all he did was yelp and hide, leaving her no recourse but to attach herself to his helpless ass like a dyslexic facehugger. Since they are both yellow and stripy, it looked like some kind of depraved mating ritual.

Oh, sure. Laugh. I'm scarred for life here.

I cannot pass a single hour without screaming deathmatches disrupting my train of thought. Cats come rolling through the room like hairy, spitting tumbleweeds. The doppler effect of their high-decibel shrieking makes them sound like some bizarre futuristic spaceship from a twisted Jetson's alternate reality that uses human infants for batteries.

When I scream at them to stop they split apart and then one or both will tear off in a different direction completely, most often taking a detour to run over my naked, unprotected foot, thus drawing blood. There they hunch and cower under any available furniture only to ricochet out, pinball-like, when yet another conflict sends yet another another animal rocketing into the room. At this point, one or both will either deposit some form of bodily effluvia in a highly inaccessible spot, or knock over the garbage in an attempt to eat something potentially lethal such as tinfoil, snake poop, and apple cores. During these brave excursions, the cats inevitably encounter one another again, and history sighs and repeats itself.


Item Three: The trailer for the Brothers Grimm movie looks very cool. Yes, I said I hate trailers, and I do, but sometimes they serve a purpose I neglected to mention in my rant. They serve to convince Sargon to take me to see a movie. This one might be in the bag, folks. Heath Ledger, Monica Belluci. Something for each of us.


Item Four: Unintentional humor is writing several pages of bondage porn, only to look down and realize that you are wearing a Punisher tee shirt.


My drugs just kicked in, and I'm feeling like sleeping. Finally. I think that's all for tonight.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
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.


Item One: I have a cold of some kind.

This is utterly stupid, as it's topping one hundred degrees outside with fair regularity. For you people who don't measure temperatures in American, one hundred degrees is about the temperature at which Naamah stops functioning. Coincidentally, it is also the internal temperature at which I appear to be running. Aren't fevers fun?

On the bright side, I've always been one of those lucky bitches who gets really cool fever dreams, and when I have a fever I write extremely well, so it's not all bad news.


Item Two: I am going to murder my cats.

Fish and Mathurin don't give a shit about each other, or any of the other cats. They are not the source of the problem. It's the other two. You know. The two I've had longest and who should, by rights, know better than to fuck with Mommy when Mommy does not feel well.

Tazendra has taken it upon herself to hiss and moan every time she sees any of the other three, and Sif has gone feral, and will attack any of the others who come within ten feet of her. Yesterday she attacked the dog.

Let me make this clear. The dog is, by my math, seven and a half times her size. And yet she latched onto his snout like one of those goddamned Garfield window-hangers and lacerated his snout, only narrowly missing his eyeball. The provocation? We have no clue, as the dog generally leaves the cats alone and will not attack even if provoked. Obviously. She scratched the crap out of him and all he did was yelp and hide, leaving her no recourse but to attach herself to his helpless ass like a dyslexic facehugger. Since they are both yellow and stripy, it looked like some kind of depraved mating ritual.

Oh, sure. Laugh. I'm scarred for life here.

I cannot pass a single hour without screaming deathmatches disrupting my train of thought. Cats come rolling through the room like hairy, spitting tumbleweeds. The doppler effect of their high-decibel shrieking makes them sound like some bizarre futuristic spaceship from a twisted Jetson's alternate reality that uses human infants for batteries.

When I scream at them to stop they split apart and then one or both will tear off in a different direction completely, most often taking a detour to run over my naked, unprotected foot, thus drawing blood. There they hunch and cower under any available furniture only to ricochet out, pinball-like, when yet another conflict sends yet another another animal rocketing into the room. At this point, one or both will either deposit some form of bodily effluvia in a highly inaccessible spot, or knock over the garbage in an attempt to eat something potentially lethal such as tinfoil, snake poop, and apple cores. During these brave excursions, the cats inevitably encounter one another again, and history sighs and repeats itself.


Item Three: The trailer for the Brothers Grimm movie looks very cool. Yes, I said I hate trailers, and I do, but sometimes they serve a purpose I neglected to mention in my rant. They serve to convince Sargon to take me to see a movie. This one might be in the bag, folks. Heath Ledger, Monica Belluci. Something for each of us.


Item Four: Unintentional humor is writing several pages of bondage porn, only to look down and realize that you are wearing a Punisher tee shirt.


My drugs just kicked in, and I'm feeling like sleeping. Finally. I think that's all for tonight.

Levity

Oct. 19th, 2004 01:06 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Just so you people don't think I'm about to kill myself or something, I am going to prove that I can still laugh by sharing something I forgot to include earlier.

I dreamed about skunks last night.

Skunks.

I love skunks, and they were very playful, so it was pretty groovy, until they started getting bigger. And the bigger ones started producing really vile odors. And getting not-so-playful. These were not tame, friendly skunks. One was at least four feet tall. Akita-sized. At that point, the smell was pretty aggressively frightful.

I awoke, and wondered aloud to myself: "Self, why are you dreaming about oversized, smelly mustelids?"

Until I took a breath.

And was assailed by The Stench.

It smelled like something died in a bowl full of rotten broccoli. This stank would pierce Kevlar.

The dog was sleeping right outside the door, channeling an apparently endless supply of dog farts under the doorframe, from whence they were helpfully wafted across my helpless sleeping form by the bedside fan.

That is why I was dreaming of skunks (doesn't explain the tap-dancing or the spats, though).

Okay. I thought it was funny.

. . .

And people ask why I like snakes.

Snakes do not fart!

link

Levity

Oct. 19th, 2004 01:06 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Just so you people don't think I'm about to kill myself or something, I am going to prove that I can still laugh by sharing something I forgot to include earlier.

I dreamed about skunks last night.

Skunks.

I love skunks, and they were very playful, so it was pretty groovy, until they started getting bigger. And the bigger ones started producing really vile odors. And getting not-so-playful. These were not tame, friendly skunks. One was at least four feet tall. Akita-sized. At that point, the smell was pretty aggressively frightful.

I awoke, and wondered aloud to myself: "Self, why are you dreaming about oversized, smelly mustelids?"

Until I took a breath.

And was assailed by The Stench.

It smelled like something died in a bowl full of rotten broccoli. This stank would pierce Kevlar.

The dog was sleeping right outside the door, channeling an apparently endless supply of dog farts under the doorframe, from whence they were helpfully wafted across my helpless sleeping form by the bedside fan.

That is why I was dreaming of skunks (doesn't explain the tap-dancing or the spats, though).

Okay. I thought it was funny.

. . .

And people ask why I like snakes.

Snakes do not fart!

link

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