Thursday, September 28, 2006

ThePeach Supports Cripples and 'Tards but not Stretch-Pants

Here is an update that will surely warm TheHippie’s giving, politically correct heart.

I am not the antichrist, and here is proof:

It is raining like a sonofabitch today, which is not unusual in Universitytown. It rains here about as often as I have flashbacks to that time TigerCat made me watch this video: usually once every 2 or 3 days, whether I like it or not.


So, ya. It’s raining like crazy. I also somehow managed to lose both of my umbrellas. Ok, that’s lie. I know exactly how I lost them. I left one in a sushi restaurant and was too lazy to go looking for it, and I’m pretty sure the other one got sucked into the vortex of hell that is the clutter in my apartment. Either way, I was umbrella-less when I walked to work. This led to me getting soaked and cranky. I smell like wet jeans and look like a hood-rat.

I like to sit cross legged at work – not because I am eleven, but because TheBoss furnished the office with dusty chairs from the 80s that are too deep to sit in normally unless I want to develop a healthy hump in my spine. Which might be hot and all, but no thanks. But today I cannot sit cross-legged because the bottoms of both my pant-legs are soaked, smelly, and covered in UniversityTown grime that I picked up along the walk here. There’s a probably a used needle and an aborted fetus rolled up in the folds of denim, but I don’t want to dig them out just yet. If I were to sit cross-legged, I would transfer this grime to my ass and thighs, and then I would just be wet and diseased all over. I hate rain. Who wants to come pet my hump? It’s nice and damp.

My point here is that I was pretty miserable when I got here this morning, and even moreso when I realized I had to walk to the student post office. In the rain. Again. The post office is in the student centre, and as I was elbowing my way through throngs of bitches in stretch pants –

- actually, you know what? I think we need to stop here for a second so that I can comment on something that I feel to be of the utmost importance. So much so that I have stopped my previous rant mid-sentence to begin a new, more important rant. Bitches of the world, please listen to me. Listen to me right now. Put down your atkins-friendly rice cake and listen up: I WILL PERSONALLY MURDER THE NEXT SCRAG I SEE WEARING STRETCH PANTS. I don’t care if you are wearing them under a skirt, under a sweater-dress, under over-sized boots, or in plain sight for the world to see your wee little thighs. I WILL SNAP YOUR TEENY FEMURS IN HALF AND HIT YOU IN THE OVARIES UNTIL YOU DIE. Please consider this before you leave the house in something small enough for me to floss my teeth with ever again. I know you’re proud that your combination of mutant genes, bulimia, exercise bike, and daddy’s plastic surgery practice left you a size 00, but nobody needs to see that. Nobody. Not even Jesus, and especially not me. Put on some real pants and run home as fast as your twig-legs will carry you. Then, eat a sammich. Eat two. When you’re a size 6, I will take you off my hit-list. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.

Ok, so I was elbowing my way through throngs of stretch-pant clad whores and spiky-haired asses with popped collars when my uterus spotted a bake sale.

ThePeach: Shutup, stop talking to me.
ThePeach: We’re trying to lose 5 pounds by my birthday. You know that. You want that as much as I do.
ThePeach: GO TO HELL!!!
ThePeach: You made your point, and it was well argued. *to bake sale worker* I’ll take…the brownies.
ThePeach: AHHHHohgod and the cookies.
ThePeach’s Uterus: *pleased gurgle*

The bake sale was in support of the Special Olympics. I gave them 3 dollahs. They seemed pleased. My uterus is pleased. My back fat is…not.

I am a good person. Some ‘tard is going to get extra sequins sewn on her figure-skating helmet and it’s all thanks to me.



Thursday, September 21, 2006

ThePeach Takes a Sick Day

Ola Bitches,

I am blogging from home today because I am sick and took the day off. I'm also achey, feverish, whiney, and annoying - fun times! I just want someone to come make me soup and cuddle with me while the fever-chills run through my poor body...but apparently that offer is only appealing to me. At least the kitten is behaving for once, and he cuddled with me all night and only bit me a few times. My spastic, downs-syndrome, inbred, HIVs kitten is the only person who loves me, and that makes me sad. Sad and achey. Or maybe that's the fever.

Here is something else that makes me sad and achey: the email correspondance I had with TheBoss about me being sick. I pasted it word-for-word.

To: TheBoss
From: ThePeach
Subject: Sick

Hi Boss,
I wanted to email you tonight in case I sleep until noon or something tomorrow. I am so bloody sick, there's no way I can come in again tomorrow ( by the time you get this). I still have a fever and all that fun stuff. I think I'll be fine by Friday so I will be back then. The good news is that I now have 5 fully trained slaves, I mean volunteers, entering data for us. We should get through that box in no time at all. Yay!

Ok...bed. Sorry about missing work. If there's anything you need feel free to call me or email me.


To: ThePeach
From: TheBoss
Subject: Re: Sick


Who am I going to bug today? Drats, maybe I will call you to get my harassment fix?
But seriously, sleep it off, and see ya Friday bright and early, big lab meeting coming up.

Peace out dog! (how is that for my new one?)


I bet TheBoss would make me soup and cuddle with me...and by "cuddle" I mean "put his penis in my acorn". And by "make me soup" I mean "put his penis in my acorn".

Sad and achey but not quite that desperate,


Monday, September 18, 2006

ThePeach’s Homecoming: Deep-Fry and Molestations All-Around

Once a year, Universitytown alights with drunkards more so than usual. Once a year, it is deemed acceptable to be wrecked by 11am – in fact it is unacceptable to be sober at noon. Once a year, poutine is sold on the street.

I’m talking about Universitytown Homecoming, the legendary weekend where livers are killed, cars are flipped, bank accounts are emptied for beer money, and loose Universitytown gash becomes even looser with the aid of booze, booze, booze.

Welcome Home, Motherfuckers!

It’s the one weekend I truly love living in Universitytown. Debauch…it feels so right. My mind is a little pickled still, but I’ll do my best to recount some highlights of my weekend.

Highlight: Cheese.

I consumed beautifully disgusting amounts of cheese this weekend. I may never poop again. And I’m ok with that, because the cheese was amazing and salty and totally worth the bowel decay. It started on Friday, when AsianCymbals and her hubby took me out for pizza. That was just a cheese primer. The main event was a few hours later, when TheHubby and I got smashed and he took out a fucking wheel of brie. Wheel of brie!! I swore I wouldn’t gorge on it, but then Cleavage showed up with drugs and that was the end of that. More cheese highlights included the stringy white cheese floating in the 2 large poutines I ate on Saturday. Cheese in gravy is the culmination of everything beautiful.

Highlight: Deep-Fry.

Anything rolled in batter and cooked in grease is alright with me. I’d probably eat a strip of my own flesh if it was deep-fried. I’m tender and delicious. My deep-fry consumption this weekend consisted of onion rings aaaaand…

Highlight: Deep-Fried Cheese!!!

OHHH KELLY CLARKSON!! TheHippie and I needed dinner at the bar we had been drinking in since 2pm. We knew dinner would have to consist of deep-fry, but what kind of deep-fry? I left it in TheHippie’s capable hands as I went to hump TheLegend from behind. Yaaaa…feels good, doesn’t it TheLegend? I came back to TheHippie when I was all frotteur-ed out and, god bless my soul-mate’s heart, she had ordered us deep-fried cheese-balls!! I’m salivating thinking about them right now. Also, it’s almost lunch time. And all I have is a stupid sammich. It’s neither deep-fried nor cheesy, and I am sad.

Highlight: Drugs.

I just can’t lay off the beautiful drugs no matter how hard I try. And I really don’t try at all. In fact, I called Cleavage and yelled at her to bring drugs and then peer-pressured everyone to smoke with me. Highlights of the marijuana episodes included:
- TheHubby trying to be a fountain, and just spitting water all over himself.
- blackout???
- discussing with TheHubby how, if I were to punch someone in the vag, I would call it “the vulva 1-2”
- watching the saddest movie ever – it had Michael Keaton dying of a brain tumor, and Nicole Kidman as his hot wife who births his beautiful child. There were tears all around. In hindsight it was a poor choice of a movie.
- I lost my bra. I was panicked over it. I couldn’t go outside and party with my girls all exposed.
- I found my bra 20 minutes later. It was in my hand. I lifted my left hand to reach for some poutine and there it was! It was a beautiful discovery!
- I met TheHippie’s new man. I swore I wouldn’t embarrass her in front of him. I introduced myself as “Yo’ BITCH!” and told him to shoot TheHippie in the eye with semen later on for me.
- I wished that I could shoot things out of my vag. I decided I would train my vag to spit. Then I could have a defense mechanism for when people piss me off – like a porcupine shooting his quills.
- Ordering in Poutine. Dropping a lot of it in TheHippie’s bed. Rolling around in gravy and TheHippie’s blankets, just like my dream.

Highlight: Molestations.

It’s just not homecoming if I don’t see some nether-regions. This year I almost saw too many. I probably began when I made us watch porn on the first night. It continued when I encouraged people to show me their peepees. I like drinking. Some molestation highlights:
- FireCrotch, an old friend, wrestled off TheHippie’s pants. Then I saw her peepee. I didn’t want to see it, but I did.
- I saw FireCrotch’s peepee. I didn’t want to see it, but I did.
- Cleavage and FireCrotch took off my bra. Then they tried to molest me. I didn’t want to be molested, but I was.
- TheHippie took off TheLegend’s belt and wore it around her neck for a good portion of one night. She tried valiantly to take out his peepee. I can’t remember if she succeeded.
- TheLegend gave me a back massage that made my spine writhe in pleasure. His hands grazed my side-boob. I wanted to be molested, in this case. I’m a whore for back-massages. Then he took off my bra. It was a recurring theme. Everyone wants to see ThePeach’s knockers!
- FireCrotch passed out in my lap. It felt maternal and wrong. He briefly awoke to tell me “I would eat you out if I weren’t so tired. I bet you taste amazing.” That felt slightly less maternal, but slightly more wrong. Now I don’t feel like having sex anymore, and I don’t know when the feelings will ever come back! But he’s right.
- AsianCymbals backed me up against an arcade golf-game and humped me aggressively yet gently. There are pictures.
- TheHippie and I kissed aggressively yet gently. There are pictures. (This happened before I saw her peepee, not after).

Highlight: AsianCymbals and her hot Hubby

My friends AsianCymbals and her hot hubby came to town for homecoming. They are hot and hilarious. Some highlights:
- I was napping on Friday when they got drunk and came to my apartment, told me to get dressed, and then slept in my bed (without pants!) while I showered. Milo attacked them both in their sleep. AsianCymbals’ wrist was covered in tooth-marks. Milo goes for the veins.
- Hot Hubby told me I looked super-cute. I felt super-good!
- AsianCymbals was hungover by 8pm and let me wear her wedding rings while she puked. They are shiny and delicious. Um, I mean just shiny. They also gave me power over Hot Hubby.
Ok…I can’t remember anything else. To quote (my) TheHubby: “all the real memories were flushed down the toilet…the cheeses, the alcohol, the bong water…”.

Happy Happy Homecoming!


Thursday, September 07, 2006

ThePeach and TheCrazy Make Sangria!

Last Sunday of the long weekend was a real winner. The next day was one of those horrifying days where I contemplate giving up drinking for good, but thank god that mood passed with the aid of multiple extra-strength Advil and copious amounts of water. I’m silly when I’m hungover, and I think crazy thoughts.

So, my Sunday was looking to be pretty…sad and reclusive. FauxHawk was working nights, TheHippie was visiting the folks, TheNurse had moved away (*sniffle*) and…well, that’s all of my friends. All of my friends who live in UniversityTown – not all of my friends in general, you assholes. Anyway, I had just settled in for a night of “sad and lonely” mixed with “neurotic and cat-lady”. I had wrapped my entire futon in plastic-wrap so that I could sit on it and so that maybe the kitten would stop pissing on it (this actually worked for 3 gloriously urine-free days. This morning I got back from FauxHawk’s to find a puddle of stank-piss floating in the folds of the plastic. I blame FauxHawk entirely for Milo’s return to incontinence, as Milo probably wouldn’t have pissed the platic-wrapped futon if I had stayed home or we had slept at my place like I had wanted. FauxHawk doesn’t like to sleep at my apartment during the week since he has to be up earlier than I do. I don’t like walking home every morning looking and feeling like yesterday’s whore, but I guess he gets to pull the “I work hard” sympathy card. Despite that, it is still his fault. Entirely).

Where was I?

Right, I had (supposedly) piss-proofed the futon. I put on my polka-dot pajamas and ordered in some take-out Sushi. Maki, Kuso Yarou !! You should note that the sushi-joint is 3 blocks from where I live. I couldn’t be expected to go there in my pjs. I am a lazy slut. The food arrived, and I settled on my plastic, smelly futon and popped “Romeo and Juliet” into my dvd player (aka, laptop). For the next couple of hours, the following occurred:

1. Could not get a grip on the futon due to the fact that I had shrink-wrapped it. Kept sliding around in my polka-dot pjs. Finally found a solution by taking off socks and gripping to the futon with my toes. It worked. My banger-sized toes have finally been useful!
2. Marveled at the under-stated beauty of Claire Danes. Marveled at the over-stated beauty of Leo. Felt dirty for being attracted to a boy who looks 11 years old. Felt dirty for being attracted to a woman. Good-dirty.
3. Cried at the precious, innocent love blossoming between R&J. Cried at the heart-break they both endured. Laughed out loud at Claire Dane’s man-sobs when she wakes up to find her lover dead. I ruin all potential meaningful moments. But shit, that chick sure cried the ugly-cry.
4. Ate beautiful sushi. With chopsticks. Felt cultured. Dropped rice in lap multiple times.

Then, at around 9pm:

Phone: *ring!*
Milo: *attack!*
ThePeach: Hello?
TheCrazy: Peach! Are you doing anything tonight?
ThePeach: *looks down at pjs, lap full of rice*…kind of.
TheCrazy: We’re having people over. Wanna come make Sangria?
ThePeach: Are you using your home-made wine? The wine that tastes like the inside of an asshole?
TheCrazy: Yes! And orange juice!
ThePeach: Hmmm…
TheCrazy: Awww are you staying in and cuddling with your little puddy-tat? He’s so cute!
Milo: *ATTACK!!!*
ThePeach: I’ll be over in 10 minutes.

And I was. I put on jeans and lip-gloss so that I would look respectable. I walked into TheCrazy’s apartment, where a sea of attractive and brilliant doctors greeted me. Jesus Christ, it was going to be one of THOSE nights.

A Peach Definition: One of THOSE nights.

- A term. An expression.
- Meaning to feel inadequate and fuggly. To feel as if one’s life is being wasted. To feel fat.
- Usually due to the socialization with various Doctors/Surgeons/Specialists who are older, more mature, more successful, and just plain better than you. These people own houses, have RRSPs, and take vacations.
- Especially bad if Doctors/Surgeons/Specialists are funny, hot, and nice people. This will lead you to question your own worth as a sarcastic and bitter being that relies on dry humor to make friends. Dry humor and boozing.
- Always leads to the consumption of too much alcohol and, consequently, making an ass of oneself in front of the beautiful doctors. Thus the effect is cyclical and self-fullfilling.

I immediately got TheCastrato to pour me “ANYTHING WITH LOTS OF VODKA, BITCH!” and sucked it back with the desperation of a baby on the bottle. I surveyed the scene and formulated my plan to make the night amazing.

ThePeach’s Plan to Cope with One of THOSE Nights: Get everyone drunk. Drunker than self. Or at least as drunk. Then sit back and relax.

I poured TheCastrato a roofie-colada (“Drink it. It’s good.”) and told TheCrazy and CockDoc to chug, motherfuckers! People listen to me. I don’t know why. I’m one of those kids that parents warn their children about in after-school specials (“Don’t succumb to peer pressure, Bobby.” “But, ThePeach told me to drink until I fell over!” “I don’t like you hanging out with ThePeach. She’s a bad seed”.) We did some shots. I started relaxing.

And then…

TheCrazy: Oh hey, Peach – have you met GyneDoc? Hey, HEY GYNEDOC!!?? HAVE YOU MET PEACH??!!! SHE’S FAUXHAWK’S GIRLFRIEND!!
GyneDoc:…Nice to meet you.
ThePeach: Oh god…oh god no…oh sweet lord jesus of Bethlehem, no.


GyneDoc: Now, if you’ll just spread your legs a little further apart, I’ll have better access to your cervix.
ThePeach: I’ll try.
GyneDoc: Just relax…now you’re going to feel my fingers entering your vagina and examining your pelvic-region.
ThePeach: *sweats*
GyneDoc: Now you’re going to feel a little pinch while I swipe your cervix with this swab.
ThePeach: Ow.

*back to the present*

GyneDoc: I’m so SHMAMMERED!!! YA!
ThePeach: *whimper*
GyneDoc: Have we met before? Your face looks familiar.
ThePeach’s Cervix: SWAB THIS, BITCH!!!
ThePeach: Ow.

Ah yes, the joys of dating a gynecologist. The joys of dating a gynecologist and being friends with his friends. The joys of dating a gynecologist and being friends with his friends in a small, shitty city like UniversityTown. In case anyone enjoys irony, here is an excerpt from a post I wrote in January titled “Med School is SO Hard”:

Here is why dating a med student isn’t as glamorous or exciting as we’d been led to believe:
1. Getting kicked out of bed at 6am every day in the dead of winter.
2. Sex in the call rooms? Doesn’t happen. Masturbation? Perhaps, but I wouldn’t know. Or want to.
3. If you dress up in a nurse’s uniform to try to be sexy in the bedroom, all that happens is you get yelled at a whole lot, they forget your name, blame you for someone’s death, and then buy you a donut to stop your crying.
4. That girl you just got introduced to at a party? She did your pap smear last week. And she remembers.
5. That hot girl eyeing your boyfriend at the party? He did her pap smear last week. And he remembers.

Apparently I can read the future. God help us all.

So anyway, after running into someone who has seen the inside of my vag (which you’d think I’d be used to after my years of trampaging), I immediately consumed much more vodka. I was officially drunk. And, since TheCrazy was bouncing off the furniture, CockDoc was in his happy place, and TheCastrato was singing in falsetto and playing air guitar – my plan had worked. Brilliant.

Time for Sangria.

Somehow I delegated it as my job to cut up fruit to make the drinks festive. I should never be allowed to wield a knife in general, but when I’m sauced? Terrifying. I can’t believe I still have all my fingers. But I managed to slice up oranges like a pro, and luckily TheCrazy stopped me before I added some “peaches” to the mix (“Um, Peach? Those are tomatoes.” “Shit.”).

The Sangria was strong and fruity and a real hit. It hardly tasted like anus at all. I made GyneDoc drink glass after glass, because I am a peer-pressuring sonofabitch. And then…

ThePeach: Ya, drink that down, bitch! Oh, and *cough* you’ve seen my vagina….Dr. GyneDoc.
GyneDoc: WOOO-what??
ThePeach: Ya…in the clinic. I just wanted to let you know that this is why I’m so socially awkward in front of you. And why I’m making you get loaded before I talk to you.
GyneDoc: Oh…god…sorry. I don’t remember…what “it” looked like, if that makes you feel any better.
ThePeach: Slightly.
GyneDoc: And the doctor you saw after me was a TOTAL DYKE!!!
ThePeach’s Cervix: I KNEW IT!!!

Again, people listen to me. TheCrazy took some pot straight from Jamaica out of the freezer. We didn’t have any papers, so we smoked it out of her father’s pipe. Seriously. And this pot was WHACK. We were all fucked. And amazing. Amazing. Things were pretty blurry from here on. I think I dirty danced with TheCrazy in the kitchen. I know TheCrazy tackled CockDoc and bit him until she chipped a tooth. I am positive that CockDoc whispered to me “your sister is a good lay”, because I woke up in the morning with blood in my ears. I know that TheCrazy dragged us out of the apartment to go to the bar, because I had the “Noids something fierce.

We decided we wanted to touch some whores. So we set out for the strip club. But, before you get all excited – we decided halfway there that the 3 blocks we had to walk there was an ETERNITY, so we looped arms and dragged ourselves back to the local bar a block away. Inside the bar, my soul was being raped by the people and noise. Everyone in there knew I was high and WAS JUDGING ME. Oh god, I was about to become the troll of the coats again. I huddled in the corner with CockDoc and TheCrazy and whimpered. I drank more. It didn’t help. Finally CockDoc walked me home and I would be able to put my Noids to bed.

Or so I thought…

ThePeach: *opens door to apartment*
Milo: SUCKA!!! *runs up all 4 flights of stairs in the apartment building*

I finally gathered my little hellion and was safely locked inside my apartment. I slept.

The next morning I once again woke up feeling like something I once pulled out of a clogged drain. And once again I decided to go to the gym to sweat it all out.

I almost died. Why do I do this to myself??

Oh right, because I have an alcohol problem.


Sunday, September 03, 2006

Natural Selection

It's only a matter of time.


Saturday, September 02, 2006

Milo Pisses All Over ThePeach's Futon/Life

You know my adorable, soft, cuddly kitten?

I’m going to put him in a sack and drown him in my sink. I swear to god.

I love Milo, but he has always been a difficult kitten. Besides being an all-around bad-ass motherfucker, he also has a biting problem and a spite problem. In terms of the biting problem, my adorable kitten wants to eat my motherfucking face. And he just might do it one of these days, which is why I sleep with one eye open. He gets in these “moods”, where he transforms from cute and gentle to demonic and evil. His ears flatten, his head becomes pointier somehow, he gets the crazy eyes, the tail starts to twitch and thud against whatever he’s perched evilly on – and then he makes a beeline for any exposed flesh on my body. My arms, hands, and feet are covered in wee little tooth scars. He actually lost a baby tooth in FauxHawk’s arm a few weeks ago. I kept it – for the memories. I learned to sleep with all of my appendages covered by thick blankets. But the fucker outsmarted me and started biting my face. Now I have to choose between suffocating to death under my blankets or waking up looking into Milo’s crazy-eyes as his teeth grind through my nose. I’ve never been very decisive…

And the spite problem? My kitten is a vindictive little bastard. The first time I left him alone overnight, he puked in the one carpeted area of my apartment. 9/10ths of my apartment isn’t carpeted. The 1/10th that is carpeted? White carpet. Now it is white carpet with various brown vom-stains. Once I had to work late (ya, sometimes I do that. Ok, it only happened twice. And by “late” I mean 5pm) and I came home to find a single, steaming kitten-turd festering smack-dab in the middle of my white bath-mat. Another time, I came home from the bar at 3am to find a similar turd sitting directly in front of his litter box. He’s like a monkey. Except instead of throwing his feces at me, he leaves them around the house.

But I could handle these character traits. I really could. My body adapted and began to generate skin at an accelerated rate on my hands and feet, I learned to live without sleep. I bought a new bath-mat.


Kitten’s going to die.

A few weeks ago, Milo got neutered. Not only did this NOT decrease the amount of sweet lovin’ he gives my stuffed cat (I came home the other day to find “fluffer” lying spread-eagle on the floor of my kitchen…kitten likes to smack his bitches around), but I also found out (through 2 biopsies which cost me more than I spend on food in 3 months…I can live off zoodles and vodka for the next year, right?) that the little guy has a fucking Immune System Disorder. Leave it to me to adopt the kitten with the ‘HIVs. This is not the kind of disorder which is going to make him die. It is the kind of disorder that necessitates that I shove a steroid pill down Milo’s throat ever day until his HIVs goes away or I kill him. Whichever comes first. Now we can add ‘roid rage to Milo’s list of character traits.

In case we’ve forgotten, here is said list and the frequencies of occurrence:

Milo’s Character Traits:

1. cute and cuddly: 5%
2. crazy-eyed destroyer of flesh: 45%
3. spiteful little bastard: 20%
4. HIVs: constant
5. ‘roid rage: 15%
6. the kind of stupidity that reminds us why natural selection exists: constant

Now, if you’re good at the maths (I needed a calculator to add this shit up), you will notice that I am missing 15% of Milo’s personality. It is this 15% that makes me tear my hair out, cry, ask Jesus why he sent me Satan in the form of a kitten (“is it because I’m sleeping with a Jew??”), and ponder the idea of letting the little fucker go live freely with the Universitytown wildlife. I could even handle the HIVs. But this – THIS – I cannot handle!!!

7. Pissing on my beautiful futon: 15%.

Oh god, it hurts just writing it. I love my futon. It is the one real piece of furniture in my entire welfare apartment. It almost makes me forget that the ceiling in my bathroom flakes mold into my sink, and that any day now the floor in my hallway is going to rot through and I’ll probably lose a leg to gangrene by the time someone finds me in the basement. The futon is brand new. It is shiny. It is a beacon of hope.


2 weeks ago, Milo started pissing on it for no reason and now I can’t make him stop. He’s probably done it at least once a day. I have tried everything. The vet told me to try putting an extra litter box under the futon. The kitten now craps in the extra litter box, pisses on the futon, and uses the original litter box as some sort of fort. The internet told me to put tin foil down on the futon, because kittens hate tinfoil. The kitten jumped around on the tinfoil like a ‘tard in an IKEA ball-room, tried to eat it, then pissed on the futon. FauxHawk told me to buy some kind of neutralizing spray to get rid of the scent so the kitten would stop thinking the futon was his new shitter. The spray cost 20 bucks, smells like rotten soup, and the kitten just pisses on top of it.

I have sprayed, febreezed, and scrubbed the futon with various cleaners – all to no avail.

You have no way of knowing this, but I just stopped typing for 10 minutes. Why? Because things seemed too quiet, so I looked up from my computer to do a quick scan of the apartment to see what kind of havoc the kitten might be plotting. The curtains were still hanging. None of my limbs were bleeding. That could only mean one thing.

Milo: *piss*
ThePeach: BAD KITTEN!!!!!
Milo: *piss*
ThePeach: I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!!!!
Milo: *piss*
ThePeach: *hysterical sobs*
Milo: *shakes off, licks own ass*
ThePeach: Why don’t you love me?
Milo: *ATTACK!!!*

My kitten is pissing all over my futon and my life.

I have lost the will to blog. I am going to go hover over my soiled futon and whimper.