Health~ma for your cousin and future baby, askye.

Dear meth-dealers and makers,

Fuck you for making it so that we can't have nice drugs. Easily.

Signed,
Don't know why they needed the Myers-Briggs profile to give her the Sudafed.

Also,

Dear Potential Tenants,

If you have time to call me and bitch at me about how you were given the wrong line to take to get to us, then you have enough time to call the fucking AATA and get the information your damn self.

Signed,
Way too effing early for this shit.

Evidence of The Cat Daniel's macchiavellian nature: I rescued him from Cat Prison this afternoon, where he'd been consigned while I went gadding off to Cambodia.

He appeared very pleased to be rescued, although he was vocal in his disapproval of Cat Prison (and, yes, clearly he acts all frantic and feral if they try to let him out of the cage to hang out - they agreed that he was best just left in the cage, to glower peacefully out at the world).

However, I fed and watered him, and made a fuss of him, and then got on with internetting, to let him calm down and settle back into his space.

He was snuggly and purry, and clearly delighted with his fish supper. All appeared to be well. At first.

And then, an hour or so after we got home, after he'd lulled me into a false sense of security...

Vomit.

Fishy vomit.

Projectile fishy vomit.

ONTO THE MACBOOK.

(And the bedsheets, but, y'know - MacBook!)

Cue much frantic and repulsed cleaning up.

Macchiavellian, I tell you. A true minion of Basement Cat, he is.

::sighs::

Cereal post:

Today's random kid moment, while kid was explaining the game he'd designed for homework, as part of his Space Project on Neptune (said game being clearly derived from Snakes'n'Ladders, but in an excellent spacetastic manner):

Kid (seriously): And here's another rocket, to take you up to the next line, and this is the square with the skeleton monkeys.

Me (nodding sagely): ....ah yes, those well-known Skeleton Monkeys, lying await for unwary travellers through the solar system.

Kid: Yep.

Fishy kitty vomit? Urk, Fay. Little bastard, lulling you into a false sense of security that way.

IOmeN: I just spent the last hour packing and labeling about a half dozen boxes of my reference books that I want/need to know where they're at when we move.

OMG, when we move!

We're really doing this! ACK!

Morning, Bitches! How is your Monday treating you?

Dear Mom, you have been bitching about this problem for three months. You say that you made a promise and you've dropped a bunch of hints to the person that you didn't want to keep the promise and they're not getting the hint. Now, you are bitching to me about being forced to spend money that you don't want to. Either accept it and stop bitching or don't do it.

How is your Monday treating you?

Surprisingly well.

Remember a few months ago I was filling in renewal forms for my Disability Living Allowance (a non-work-related benefit that's a bugger to qualify for, even if you have done before)?

I got the highest rates. For five years.

I attempted to dance around the living room, and fell over. Seemed appropriate.

Excellent, Seska! (I just saw your tweet about it, but had no idea if that was a good thing or a bad thing, so...)