Filip and Zola
Hello to the humans, out there in blog land, huddled around your monitors, basking in the glow of my fuzzy warm verbiage. That ought read 'human', hello to the human reading this. Hello, spouse. If there's some other out there, reading this, this online diary format, welcome to the only therapy I can afford. There will be no confessions of excess, adolescent or otherwise, no tales of at home math kit piercings gone awry, animal sacrifice, ewine lust... no.
I was asked to comment on the large cat's gustatory habits. Unlike the small (this is a relative term) cat, who dines exclusively on kibbles and his rectum, this other freeloader is largely know to dine on:
c: the smaller cat
d: the smaller cat's vomit
Tonight we fed our girl some chow mein and I know you can see where this is going, the dominant subject of this text being what does the cat eat and of course, she, being our child, is just over a year old, and the greasy little noodles, they are sticky and they spin and they fly and this is good, but the point is not to describe the qualities of the noodles which do not require description as they have no quality that will not be apparent to anyone who has purchased the take away styrofoam noodle pack from the nearest chinese storefront noodle vendor, but I digress, as the glistening noodles arc thru' the air rotating as they fall to the floor, to lie curled like dried summer worms lining the sidewalk, and as the similies begin to accumulate like something that accumulates prolifically and unnecessarily, and the sentence runs on barefoot like Zola Budd with the horse faced and grim fate of Mary Decker-Slaney aiming its cleats at its tender, innocent calves, and still it runs on does the sentence while Filip, our large, orange, slightly pear-shaped cat, slurps up the noodles from the floor, as if they were, well, noodles.
And it was my night to clear the floor, so, thanks Filip.