I'm in ur hamper, shit-streaking your skivvies
Mommy has seen every freaking apartment available in the Apartment Guide, and she finally decided on one today. But she lied about my ass -- I don't exist, in her world. And she notices how all these rental companies ask her twice about having pets -- once on the phone, and again in person. Even when she shows up, they say, "You said you're bringing a pet, right?" She blinks and answers blankly, "No." Hah -- smart girl!
But she came home and told me that the place she's looking at has brand-new everything, including carpet. Which means I'm getting a nice kitty prozac prescription before we go. Whee. Apparently my shit fetish isn't uncommon and now I will have to be on antidepressants so I will not feel the need to shit everywhere anymore.
Silly Mommy, there ain't a drug on this planet that will cure me of big, fat wet dingleberries like the one you picked out of my butt tonight when I tried to jump on your head and you nearly committed suicide from the stench. If I am not emanating an aroma of ass juice, how will you know it's me sittin' on your head?