Pam and I have been spending time watching porn cat-sitting for Cheryl and during this time I have come to realise why, although I do enjoy the occasional cat (in the Biblical sense? i hope not), I am not a cat person. To fully realise my reasoning, you must realise:

1. I view the cat relatively human-like.
2. What the cat is like as relatively human.

Imagine you have a roommate.



After a full day, you head off to bed. You close your eyes in the darkness and begin to relax but then become aware of another presence in the room. You open your eyes to find your roommate staring at you, expectantly.



Oh, and your roommate's pupils are the size of nickels.



The two of you just look at each other for a moment, then your roommate disappears into the darkness without a sound.



You manage to almost fall asleep when you feel the presence again. This time, your roommate is staring at you from a different location, considerably closer to your face.



Your first instinct might be to knock your roommate away but then you remember that your roommate constantly carries around these really sharp knives purchased off an informercial that was playing on that one channel that's in one Asian language you don't speak and has subtitles in another Asian language you don't read. On top of this, your roommate cuts people at random with these knives. Your roommate believes this is all in good fun and that anytime is a good time for good fun. In the infomercial, a man you believe to be an important Asian political figure uses what you're under the impression is supposed to be the "dull" butter knife to slice through a 1990 Buick LeSabre with 137,218 miles on it. You have never seen your roommate use these knives for anything related to the preparation of food.



Your roommate scurries off into the darkness again, once more without a sound, but gives you only a few seconds to freak out about this latest episode as you soon hear your roommate scrambling haphazardly, apparently completely devoid of the quiet grace in use only seconds earlier, over your furniture, running head-first into a stack of boxes, leaping to the side, glancing over at you quickly, then trying to play it cool, like everything that just happened went exactly as planned and oh, were you watching all that finesse? 'cause that was nothing for a smooth character such as myself. At least as much as one can look like that while featuring pupils the size of nickels.



Eventually, you manage to fall asleep. Around 4:30 AM you wake up, opening your eyes just in time to see your roommate move silently out of the competely darkness before you, halting just before your face for another episode of expectant staring.



The exact details of the flawed system of logic you latch onto in order to convince yourself you'll survive this and every following night are hard to pin down exactly but somehow you get enough sleep to get up in the morning and get yourself ready for work, school, masturbation, or whatever it is you do all day. On your way to the bathroom you discover (inadvertantly and with one of your limbs) your roommate has thrown up in the middle of the floor, as per usual, and somehow this is supposed to be okay. Your roommate is, of course, watching all of this from the top of your dresser.



Now make breakfast.

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