I need Dwight.

As my cat gets more and more annoying, what with the constant crying for food, her insistence for fresh water twice a day, the vomiting on the carpet, and her refusal to cover her shit in the litter box, I start wondering how fine the line is between killing and mercy killing.

I mean, she's already dying, right?

I was wrong.

I thought I wanted Fleetwood Mac's greatest hits but it turns out I just wanted Rumors. I don't know who's idea it was to record Little Lies but they should be shot.

Spade.

Sometimes I think I should rename this blog "Link List."

If I could say shitballs to the principal I'd be so happy.

How many days later, and I still can't get Cartman's voice out of my head.

"I've got a golden ticket..."

Late night visitor.

That black cat keeps trying to get into my bedroom. He even opens the screen door. I thought he had a collar, but last night I noticed he was without. I wonder if he lost it. Or maybe the owner is tired of him being such a slut.

Trying to get at my poor, innocent Fatty.

I already took in one stray black cat. I'm not taking another. Soon I'd have five. And who wants that much bad luck?

Now I guess I'll have to tell 'em that I got no cerebellum.

I put in a Ramones CD today, Their Toughest Hits. Which is kind of like listening to one really long Ramones song.

Oh, and what about those people who can't switch lanes without breaking? How do you feel about them?

Overkill.

I wrote "C shampoo" on my running grocery list today, to remind myself to buy shampoo for my son. Which is pretty lame because:

a. My son and I both have names that start with C, and

b. Like I'd use shampoo from a grocery store. Come on, now.

Ow! Quit it! Ow! Quit it!

Which one of you fuckers has the voodoo doll of me and would you please stop jabbing me in the ear with a pin?

Thanks.

Born to rock.

Last week, as I left my son's school, I saw a woman getting into her car near mine. She had on sweatpants that said "Rock Star" across the butt. In rhinestones. Like it was BeDazzled.

The way I see it, you're not a rock star if:

1. You're getting into your Honda CRV after dropping your kid off at school, and

2. You advertise it on your ass. In sweatpants.

Knock it off, lady. You're past your prime. Face it.