T.G.I.F.

Oh dear diary it is the happiest day of all days, for mother is home!! I am so happy I could nap.

When she comes home I think we are going to play and snuggle! I'M BESIDE MYSELF WITH ANTICIPATION!!!!!

Tuesday, July 21, 11:59pm

Just dropping by for a quick update... haven't written anything here in a while, I figured it was well past time at this point. So, without further ado, I give you, Updates:

Continuing to be a fucking stupid babbling prick.

That is all, no picture necessary.

Okay, that was great! I feel a lot better now. Alright, time to get back out there, see you fuckers later.

Memories and More

Well, admittedly I have been a tad irresponsible in keeping up with my blog.  It seems that I have somehow let several months go by without so much as the slightest update on the sordid details of my life.  So now, I have returned to make some reparations.  To make up for the lack of linguistic efforts on my part, I am offering a menagerie of photos, documenting a spectrum of mundane to excruciating moments in my recent past.  Enjoy, if you can.

Here I am with Andrzej looking like I'm about to be crucified.  I probably had it coming.

We had company over and everyone got drunk, so I laid in a grotesque position on my back in the middle of Morgan's laundry.
This was a humiliating moment in which I was denied all dignity and respect by my former friend and housemate, Will.
Here they are pretending that I've sprouted a naked baby arm, probably in support of their theory that I have been evolving in a human boy.
Sun glasses, as if to suggest in irony that I am cool.
Caught in an early afternoon moment of man-love.

I am a lucky son-of-a-bitch to be receiving this kind of affection in spite of my daily behavior, yet the look on my hair face is born of wretched disgust.
Oh, another bandana, well yippie kay yay don't I just love that.

This was an important day.  In light of my insatiable hunger and fiery temper, the family decided at long last to replace my hateful automatic feeder with a water-jug style food tank that was meant to dispense food as fast as the rate of gravity would allow, all day, every day.  As such, I could not restrain myself and I am seen here thrusting my chubby face into the bowl before it has even reached the floor for the first time ever.  Despicable.  

Nothing much going on here, except that I am taking up almost the entire width of Morgan's full-size bed, which is 4.5' across.  So what?

Hopefully that has whet your appetite for evidence of my persisting, tortured existence.  What else has happend?  A list:

- I have acquired several new collars/bandanas.

- Several weeks ago I slashed Morgan's finger during her attempt to make me meow for some one of their misguided musical keyboard projects.  She screamed and bled profusely on her computer, phone, and the floor, and the whole incident was recorded in GarageBand.  I am not sure yet if I am proud or ashamed.

- Two days ago I forwent the litter box and shit directly on the bath mat in the lavatory, a decision that was met with much resentment and foul language from my roommates.  This was a hurtful incident for me, as I saw my decision as a step towards my transformation into a human - but Mother was angry as she was about to shower when she made the discovery, and was forced to dispose of my gift in front of several jeering onlookers.  I think I would go about that differently if I could do it over again.  Maybe with more tact, and foresight.

- Tiger Power moved to Park Slope, I couldn't care less.

- Uncle Colin moved out of the apartment yesterday, to go back and work as his old summer camp in Massachusetts.  Accordingly, I took the opportunity last night/this morning (4am?  5?)  to storm through his empty room screaming and crying and slamming up against the walls with the force of a clydesdale.  Such fun!

Goodbye, must nap.

A Foreboding Thursday Morning

Dear Diary,

It is 5:55 am.  According to all semblance of logic and reason left in this hell hole, no one in the house should be awake right now, laying rigid in bed, eyeballs staring blindly through the dark up at the ceiling.  And yet, everyone is, because I am being a complete and utter cock.

Somewhere in the window of five to twenty minutes, I pause my haunting yet deafening growling and run into the kitchen with my fat swinging between my thighs, when I hear someone rip off her covers and storm out of her room.  She trips over me as I slam up against her shins, grabs me by the scruff of my neck, draws my pig face close to hers, and whispers threats and insults into my ear while I salivate and tremble with anticipation.  When she thinks she has made her point, she releases me, reaches up for my bag of food pellets, and sets it down in front of my disassembled robotic feeder while I let loose a veritable chorus of gluttonous meowing.  The food sits there, unopened, while she crouches at my level and stares into my black, beady eyes.  If I start to meow, or advance towards the food, she shoves me away.  It is an exercise in restraint that I must endure if I am to taste the sweet, delicious tang of those early morning food pellets.

Eventually she pours the food into the bowl, and I thrust my head in the way so that pellets cascade down over my jelly-roll neck and all over the floor.  She slings me across the room with her foot, and repeats as necessary until I can sit patiently while she pours the food.

I eat feverishly, barely tasting the food and finishing in under one minute.  I'm shouting again practically before she has slammed the food bag back into the cupboard.  When she is back in bed, I am flying through the hallway between their rooms, letting forth horrendous, soul-shaking growls, bellowing to the world for scarcely any reason at all.  I deliver every inflection known to man, including but not limited to:  despair, incense, outrage, bewilderment, boredom, inquiry, pity, idle hostility, impatience, demention, defeat, sudden realization, salutation, rage, personal tragedy, retardation, personal vendetta, and battle cry - all at no fewer than 120 decibels.  

At some point I crash into the litter box area, and either emit the most foul smell ever known to human olfactory consciousness, or stomp around in the litter until I am sufficiently filthy and smelly.  In either case, I then proceed to claw and rip the plastic lining of the box, digging as feverishly as I ate mere minutes ago.  On the other side of the wall the sound is amplified to an extent that my care taker might (if she were not already familiar with this whole extravaganza) entertain the notion of a demolition site taking place in her kitchen, inches from her head.  

When I am done with this vexing ritual, I commence again with the shouting and trampling through the halls.  I like to pop into their rooms intermittently, to make sure I am being noticed and acknowledged.  If I think I am being ignored for whatever reason, I try to find the most fragile object in the room and dash it upon the ground.  If there is nothing fragile, I will find some vessel filled with water - a drinking glass perhaps, or some paint water - and turn in on its side so that it soaks its surrounding area.  If there is no water, I will LICK ANY PLASTIC BAG IN THE VICINITY FOR AS LONG AS I AM ALLOWED.  

And so, given all these factors, it should come as no surprise to me when some day soon I am restrained against my will so that a crude lightning bolt can be shaved into my side.

Terrible Morning

It is absolutely imperative that I stop meowing, but I REFUSE!  I've been so riled up ever since I upended the mug of water on Morgan's bedside table, that I can scarcely bring myself to do much else but EMOTE, CONSTANTLY.  Just now I've chased the lesser Tiger Power from the kitchen into the hallway, then into Charlie's empty room and up through his window and onto Mother's stairs.  Then I ran up on the stairs and chased her back down through the window and into the living room, and behind the car seat, where I felt my dominance had finally been asserted.  At this point, Morgan chased me into the kitchen, crying "you are being a MOTHER FUCKER!" before she heaved a pen at me.  It is times like these, dear diary, when I truly abhor my own behavior, yet when I am subject to these spells it is so very hard to break free.  Mother is in her room, and I wish to heaven that she would acknowledge my pleas for breakfast - nay - lunch even!  But alas, her slumber cannot be broken.  And so my primal instincts lead me to stalk the house in search of prey, howling to the powers that be that I might come across a meager snack at the baseboard of the kitchen sink.  What a wretched, hateful soul am I.

Extending the Homestead

Hello blog-readers of the universe, specifically those who have been somehow directed here of all places. Hello and welcome to the fifth-someodd installment of my personal account of things. Today's subject will be: Charlie Immer and you.

Charlie Immer is my beloved roommate and life-long human friend. He is also an epic oil painter and illustrator, the owner of every season of Seinfeld, and a hygenic and altogether sound-minded individual who has immaculate taste in music to boot. That said, and in keeping with life's general irony and ass-backwardness, he is moving out at the end of the month. Without belaboring reasons why, other than to say that it is by no fault of my own (I am merely a cat), and that no hostile feelings are in play whatsoever (quite the opposite in fact), the point here is that we are now in search of a new roommate.

I will now proceed to list pertinent information for all prospective Bushwick-dwellers and friends of prospective Bushwick-dwellers who may be on the lookout for places on their prospective Bushwick-dweller-friends' behalfs. For the convenience of those reading this particular entry and to avoid any confusion about the number of people living here, I will adopt the first hand voice of one of my human roommates.  And please don't ask me how I know all this information, just trust in its unbiased accuracy.  

LOCATION & SURROUNDING AREA:
We (Morgan, Charlie, Jing, Colin) live on the Morgan stop on the L, which may be considered West Bushwick. It is a Very Safe Area ( = a couple isolated blocks of hipsters who make each other feel simultaneously secure and insecure.). We live two blocks from the subway, which means we don’t have to take into consideration walking time to the nearest stop when we are planning to go somewhere "on time" (what is that?) It takes about 20 minutes to get to Manhattan. Establishments of interest on these two blocks include: an organic bodega/grocery store (too expensive, but convenient for select items like their $4 falafel wrap), a coffee shop/internet cafe/movie rental place (decent bagels and friendly atmosphere), an art gallery (totally whatevz), a middle eastern eatery ($3.50 falafel wrap…), a soon-to-open liquor store (finally), and around the corner on our street is an overpriced gourmet pizza place and an autobody shop (noisy during the summer but sometimes there is a lime-green Lamborghini). Down our street further is a wonton factory and a pretzel factory (some day we will find a way to procure the reject pretzels), and some kind of warehouse where welding occurs. If you continue past our street from the subway there is Flushing Ave, where we have grown to love Tony's Hardware (key--copying, kitten owning, hardware time capsule), Tina's Diner (god’s gift to hangovers and busted wallets), The Wreck Room (bar), and a Chinese food place which will remain anonymous (cheap as shit and humorously unreliable). Nearby on Knickerbocker there is a sizable thrift store with a wide selection of trend-approved garments.

BUILDING & NEIGHBORS:
Everyone seems nice and cool. There’s a band across the hall, and Irish cokehead next door, friends upstairs and a rave downstairs with a bohemoth fucking subwoofer. There is a laundry room in the basement which is convenient on the off chance that the machines are dryers are both working. When they are not, we have a heater and a fan. There are three locking doors between the outside world and our inside funhouse, but for everyone’s convenience, the hallway door usually remains unlocked. We are on the second floor. No robbers. We have a buzzer, which is fun to use. There is a huge, awesome roof that we can play on and spit off of. If you have a death-wish, you can jump to the next building’s roof.

OUR SPACE:
It is a loft of about 1000sq ft. Our rooms are “stacked”, which is to say, mine is up against the left wall, and my ceiling/colin’s floor is about 6ft off the ground. Accordingly, his room is directly above mine, and he uses a ladder to climb into it from the living room. Charlie’s and Jing’s rooms are in the same format, and the two stacks of rooms are separated in the middle by a hallway leading from the kitchen into the living room/studio area. We also have a bathroom. Part of the kitchen is used as studio space, part for cooking and eating. The living room is also half studio, half super partee/tv/battleship/hangout time. We have a tv which is useful for watching Seinfeld, TYRA, and various courtroom shows. There are great big windows taking up almost the whole street-facing wall of the living room! They are great windows, and emit much light. There is still a light sprinkling of higly offensive porn around the apartment from the second annual “Fuck Me Christmas” party.

CHARLIE’S ROOM:
Charlie’s room is the bottom room on the right. The wall facing the hallway is mostly “door” space, but can be replaced with an actual door, if it is desired. There is one small window facing Jing’s stairs, which was never widened on account of Charlie’s nocturnal lifestyle. The drywall was not finished on the inside when we moved in, so there is slightly more space! Or we can fix it. Other than that, it looks like all the other rooms. It is about 8”x8” and 6” high, and stunning. It’s most recent modification are two discreet holes drilled in the wall it shares with the kitchen, for spying capabilities.

US:
We are all awesome. You probably already know us. If you don’t, we are two chicks and a dood, or two illustrators and a filmmaker respectively. We like to have people over and host/go to parties, though we are nevertheless completely responsible, trustworthy, and productive. We enjoy like totally hanging out, making fun of stuff and each other, harassing our cats, cooking, playing UNO, collecting bizarre things and super-awesome VHSs's's', art, music and all related snobbery, knowing everything about Seinfeld, spying through our peephole and eavesdropping through our buzzer, hiding out in our rooms, finding the cheapest taco, buying and drinking 3 dollar wine, and meeting like-minded individuals. We also have two very important cats: Groover (yours-truly, the moderator and author of this blog) and Tiger Power (her blog can be found through mine, though she is much, much stupider and I don’t recommend actually attempting to read it.)

MISC:
Some combination of laziness and openness prevented us from ever getting doors for our rooms. We all have some combination of curtains and blinds. You can have a door if you want, we won’t judge. In fact if you want a door, way to go on taking a step further into adulthood, I say. Rent is $625 + utilities, but excluding water. There is a pull-up bar.

The Christmas Belt

I behaved regrettably earlier today, prompting my roommates to fasten a sort of belt around my paunchy midsection, just above my fupa.  This belt - fashioned from the severed collar of a christmas sweatshirt - is an accessory I am known to dislike, and naturally I have been having some feelings of resentment, and subsequent guilt.  In my defense, and as evidenced in the photos above, I did spend some length of time donning the embarrassing article before Mother was gracious enough to remove it.   At this point I was stung again by the laughter of someone commenting on the feminine way that I "skipped" out of the garment as if it were a pair of panties.  O but were it not for the fur covering my tender jowls, they would see the shame spread across my face like a wildfire across the dry, suburban hills of California.

Following this series of events, I was forced to demonstrate my inability to play the keyboard - a human device with which no feline should be expected to have any acquaintance.  In my exit from the scene I trampled several keys which emitted an apparently humorous tone - Curses!!  

Both situations were mortifying, and at the risk of sounding like a Grumpy Gary and turning my hopeful blog into a sounding board for complaints and painful experiences, I rather wish this day hadn't happened at all.  And on top of it all, I can't figure out how to post the aforementioned photos in the proper order.  Damn it all to hell, then.