He argues there has to be a point. She smiles, placating, that’s what they want you to think. A cat walks in their midst, having jumped onto the table, long tail towering over their heads and swaying gently side to side. Meow, the cat says, silencing them both.
Kitty swipes at his King and sends it toppling to the floor; Kitty swipes at her Bishop, which hits her Knight and her Queen, and sends all three pieces falling to her lap. Kitty walks in circles and settles on their chess board for another nap. Together they reach for the cat’s fur and scratch until they hear the purr of contentment; quietly he marvels at his triumph and she marvels at the wonder of his words ever being true.
We need to iron our clothes though. You will iron our clothes, right?
No, why should we iron our clothes, we both burn through them.
Well I burned my uniforms twice. So.
(Derp) He leaves his outdoor slippers, well, outdoors. Right outside his apartment door, in fact, neatly placed side by side, ready were he to leave the comforts of his bed and his cat. The thing is, “outdoors” isn’t exactly the safest place for anything where he lives. So naturally the flip-flops get stolen. And he gets mildly pissed off.
The funny part is the thief leaves their old pair of flip-flops as payment for his outdoor slippers. Ugly things, those replacements: plain black with red straps, common rubber slippers probably worth less than a hundred, but made special by the former owner’s (rather juvenile) efforts at designing it by cutting out triangular portions of the body of the the flip-flops…
It is thoughtful, to say the least of someone who decides to steal someone else’s slippers in public.
Today was interesting, if I’m going to be polite about it. I was called a concubine to The Bestest Friend, apparently fucked up parts of friends’ lives twice in under seventy-two hours, got harrassed, spent only a whopping thirty minutes with The Boyfriend, and ate too much — hah! Too much, I thought that was a myth! — come evening, at Leira’s small Dean’s List celebration with her mom. Needless to say that the entire day’s proceedings drained me of my store of social interaction tokens; I’m broke, and will probably be on hermit hiatus tomorrow. I’m holing up inside the sleeping bag, taking out my knitting needles, and resuming my post as resident office caterpillar. While we still have the office. Gotta enjoy the last few moments, I guess. Maybe even pull off a LeRoy Jenkins somehow.
On another note, I suck at receiving compliments. When I get the money, I’m gonna take self-help classes, even though I know it won’t work and even though I know it won’t happen because 1) self-help classes means I’m the teacher and the student and that won’t work ; and 2) the oxymoron in the name is just too awful. I’ve said it so many times now, but I’ll write it down anyway: I’ve reached my annual compliment quota. Any more and I’ll explode.
Unless, of course, there’s a way to turn the extra compliments into Auditing Problem grades. That way I’ll reach my two quotas for the year.