Sunday, October 31, 2010

Sort of fun day at work...

I am a typist, which means I sit in a cubicle typing lots of technical words and numbers that all sort of look the same after eight hours straight. (*side note: "cubicle" is a fancy word for "large box". They only call it a cubicle because it is not socially acceptable to keep people in boxes, but if you call it something different then it sounds more humane so there are fewer risks of getting sued for human rights violations.) 

Anyways, the other day there was not much typing work to do so I was asked to help out in other areas, doing monkey work. "Monkey work" is what I call the work that a toilet trained monkey could handle, but they assign it to me because the Michigan climate is not good for monkeys, and, more importantly, I probably cost less.

First, I was told to tear down a bunch of cardboard boxes. This was fun, in a vindictive sort of way. 

Next, I was asked to go back to my computer and type/cut out some labels to put onto the doors of the supply cupboards. I spent the next hour painstakingly determining an adequate font size, adjusting the outer dimensions, and cutting them out with the edges as straight and smooth as I possibly could. My efforts were partially due to a bit of perfectionism/OCD, but mostly, I just figured that the more time I spent on monkey work, the less time in the afternoon I would have left for my regular boring typing duties. Let's face it, cutting and measuring and pasting is way more fun than documenting.

Before I could put the labels onto the cupboard doors, however, I had to remove the old labels from the doors. The woman I was working for asked me if I was ok with working with chemicals, to better remove the adhesive.

Of course I am ok with chemicals. Chemicals are fun!! You can use chemicals to explode things!!! And chemicals are the chief source of super powers and mutation. The more you work with chemicals, the more likely it is that you will get to be a super hero!!

Instead of saying this, however, I calmly and professionally replied that I had no objection to using chemicals. Had I explained why, she probably would've sent me down to HR for counseling, and then I wouldn't get to play with chemicals at all, now would I? ….I mean, "work." Work with chemicals, yes.

So, armed with a bottle of paint thinner (to dissolve the adhesive), some paper towels (to apply the paint thinner) and a scraper (to scrape the gunky gunk off), I donned a pair of latex gloves and got to it.

Latex gloves are exciting to me. I always feel so sophisticated and doctor-ish when I wear them, and I couldn't help but pretend I was in one of those hospital tv shows like Grey's Anatomy.

So I scraped away at those labels as if a man's life (and major organs) were in my hands.

So finally I finished with surgery, and I wiped the sweat from my forehead and ripped those gloves off my hands the way that surgeons do, turning them inside out in one quick snap so all the blood and guts and paint thinner stays on the inside. 

Then it was time to apply my new labels where the old labels had been. I had spent over an hour on these things, using extensive trial and error and throwing away many before I got it just right. Then I laminated them, because everything looks better when it's behind shiny plastic, and trimmed the edges nicely. As I did this, I had been wondering if anyone would notice my work, if they would look critically and admiringly at those cabinet doors and talk amongst themselves about how much nicer they were than their predecessors. I imagined it something like this... 

Just when I had decided that most likely no one would even notice that the labels had been changed but she who had told me to do it in the first place, someone else happened to walk by, glance at the labels I had made, and say in all seriousness, "WOW, those are NICE!!!"

That's good enough for me.

Hey, it beats sitting in that darn box. There you go, monkeys. You could be filthy rich for your species and severely over worked, but because of me, you are still in the jungle munching on green bananas while I perform intense label surgery. You're welcome.

PS Hey, cubicle! Remember your cousins? That's right--you're next!!! 


Thursday, October 28, 2010

The Time that Brushing My Teeth was Nearly a Momentous Occasion ...and One Thing I was Thinking About

I know this is a lot of reading, but I love you, so you can’t give up on me!

Things I was thinking about

Stripper Poles
I was discussing stripper poles with Ryan.  I’m not sure how we got to this topic, but lately I have been trying to avoid serious conversations to the point that if I hear you say, “Whitney...I have this problem...” I will say “awww,” but I will be thinking about karate chopping you in your Adam’s apple.  Anyway, stripper poles are relatively non-threatening topic.  I think I said that I didn’t understand the appeal of stripper poles.  Whenever I see one (on TV of course) I have never thought, “wow, it would be wicked fun to dance all sexy on that.”  On the contrary, I tend to want to put on a fireman’s hat, cut a hole in the roof, and slide down while making European siren noises.  You know, “eeee ooo eee ooo” not the American “weeeooowwwwweeeeooowwww.”  Then Ryan was all like, “what if we combined the uses of metal poles and our firemen slid down the poles in lingerie as they went to put out fires?”  And then I smiled at him and told him that I married him for brilliant ideas like these.  Now, when my house is on fire someday, I very much hope that the firemen show up at my house in red panties and a push-up bra.  I would probably still say “hey, why the panties bro?”  And he would be like, “who are you to question MY fireman wardrobe choice and also please move out of my way because your house is on fire.”

Before I get to the actual story, I need to introduce you to two of my favorite people.

This is my mother.

This is my mother in the 90s when she had a “bouf.”

This is her killing me when she finds out I have posted hideous pictures of her after she specifically said, “don’t you dare post hideous pictures of me on your (stupid) blog.”

I love my mother dearly.  Together, she and my father have blessed me with copious amounts of hair, the ability to bottle my emotions with minimal explosions, untamable anxiety, the need to drink least two lattes each day to function, and the desire to be involved in insane shenaniganary.  Most importantly, my mother has bestowed upon me her feistiness. I can’t think of a less gay word to describe my mother, so I’m going to go ahead and dub her as “fierce.”

This is my sister, Kelsey, “Seestor.”  Apply a Russian accent as you feel appropriate when reading “Seestor.”

No words could possibly encompass the vastness of Seestor’s madness.  I think I’ll sum it up with this: Once she fake died for 40 minutes.  You think I’m kidding you because no one possibly has the stamina to do such a thing, but she did.  And I am proud.  She didn’t even take a break.  I was in the basement when I heard her screaming and shrieking so I emerged from the basement to watch.  I watched for awhile as she fell/flopped on the floor/whatever furniture she found herself around as she dramatically threw herself about the living room.  I was secretly hoping that she would knock herself out by flopping onto the corner of the coffee table or something, but that failed.  Eventually I got bored and left, but she continued her death scene for another half an hour.

All this to say, Kelsey is, without a doubt, the most hard core person I know.

Actual Story!

When I lived at home and Kelsey was still in high school, “bedtime” was my favorite part of the day.  We shared a bathroom (the room with sinks is connected to a separate shower room) and it takes Kelsey about 3 1/2 hours to take a “quick shower,” so we almost always ran into each other.  She is usually yelling at me, “why can’t you flush before you open the door!?” then I would verbally insult her which leads her to randomly grab one of my body parts with angst.  One glorious evening, as Kelsey and I were brushing our teeth and taking turns making faces at each other in the mirror using only our eyebrows, the door burst open and in came my mother holding up the “stop in the name of love/stop it’s Hammer time” hand as she scream “SSSSTTTTTOOOOPPPPPPPPP!”

“Holy expletive,” I thought.  “She has either replaced our toothpaste with cyanide to kill us off, or she has added some kind of acid to melt our teeth and make us all gummy like some ninety year old woman named Ruth. Either way, she is now rushing in here, currently regretting her decision.  But it is too late; I am going to die/be gummy.”  This is a warning to my mother: If you ever do try to disintegrate my teeth with an acid or some type of weaponized Mountain Dew concentrate so that all I have left is gums, I will gnaw on your leg when you least expect it.  This will be uncomfortable for both of us, but mostly for you.  Beware, woman.

Then she made some crazy eyes at us and said:

And so I witnessed the largest overreaction. Ever.

My mother began to calm herself down, and as she did,  I stared at my mom, slightly curious about why she feels that our gums didn’t deserve to be cleaned by a medium-grade bristled toothbrush, which I gotta be honest, I had no idea existed.  If I knew that there were different levels of toothbrush, I long ago would have purchased myself the “you will bleed profusely, but your friends will think you’re cool” level and watched my mouth bleed as I flexed in the mirror.  Then the dentist would call me things like “dedicated” and not “irresponsible for only flossing your teeth the morning before you come to visit me, the dentist.”

This is basically the end of my story, I just really wanted you to see how my mom looks with crazy eyes.


Tuesday, October 26, 2010

A Whitney and Ryan Conversation

In case you feel like reading some more!  But if you are offended by the word “ding-a-ling” being used in reference to a male body part, then stop reading.  This doesn’t get inappropriate at all, I promise, it just gets funny, and it is necessary to the story.

So I needed a break from homework, so I went to the basement to find my mom and dad watching football.  Both of my parents get this really mean look on their faces when they watch TV.  I’m serious, it is like they are hurt and confused by whatever is spewing out of the the thing.  Football seems to be a relatively unoffensive channel to be watching except for the constant puns dealing with “tight ends.”  This apparently infuriates them.

Me: “Who’s Playing?”

Dad: The Patriots and the Steelers. (I’m not sure if it actually was the Steelers, but I really don’t care.)

Me: Is Tom Brady still their quarterback?

Dad: Yeah, he’s married to a model.

Mom: That’s too bad.

Me: Why?

Mom: Because he texted pictures of his ding-a-ling.

I had no idea what she was talking about, or why being married to a model makes this a worse offense, but apparently it does.

An hour later or so, Ryan stopped by.  He went to put the cat in the basement, so I followed him because I was bored and also I wanted to harass kitteh.  My dad had left the football game on and Ryan’s all like...

“What’s this?” 

Me: Football, but we’re rooting for the Steelers (or someone else) because Tom Brady texts pictures of his ding-a-ling.

Ryan: What?  To whom?

Me: Um.  The President.

Ryan: Why?

Me:  I don’t know. I heard it’s for the our nation.

I had heard no such thing.

About 20 minutes later, I was complaining to Ryan about how much I hate the German language because it’s a pain to learn.  I think I said I wanted to learn Spanish instead, and Spain would help me attack Germany to rid us of the language.  I also threatened the jerks who built the Tower of Babel, but they’re already dead.  Ryan said he had a friend named Juan Pedro who was born in Spain but lived in Germany and to think about that.  I didn’t want to think about that.

Me:  It’s too late.  I killed Juan Pedro.

Ryan:  I didn’t know you knew Juan Pedro.

Me:  I did before I killed him last week.

Ryan:  You went to Germany and didn’t tell me?

Me:  Duh.  It was for your job.

Ryan:  You killed Juan Pedro for my job?

Me:  Yeah, he was keeping me from going to war and when Germany takes over America with its “ichs” and “fragens” then the Germans will get the best jobs.

Ryan:  Someone should tell the President.

Me:  He’s too busy looking at Tom Brady’s ding-a-ling.  It’s for the nation.


Monday, October 25, 2010

Terms/Words I HATE.

Here are just a few of my least favorite terms. Believe me, there are way more, and every day I find a new one. ...Or six. These are just some of the top few.

(1) Feelings.

When someone says, "I have feelings for you" I picture them grabbing me with large purple tentacles. When they say, "You hurt my feelings", i imagine them with large purple tentacles that are bleeding profusely. 

Just say that word slowly and I think you'll understand. FEEEEEEEEEElings. Ewwwwwwww.

(2) Condiments -or- Condominium.

Now, do not mistake me, I do not have my head in the gutter, but when I hear these words I automatically think "condom". I do not want a condom on my hamburger, and I certainly do not want to live in one.

Just be more specific.

Say, "mustard," or "ketchup", or "small house", as applicable.

(3) Navel.

A belly button is a cute little thing that sticks out of your middle. A navel, however, is a hairy, lint-infested thing that now resides where your belly button USED to be, because you failed to maintain a reasonable level of personal hygiene. Make sure not to confuse the two…and also, make sure you clean your belly button thoroughly and regularly.

Need I say more?

(4) Bowel movement.

I'm not even going to illustrate this one. For the love of humanity, just call it "poop"!! Believe it or not, it sounds better.

(5) Moist.

Now, why say "moist" when "damp" is such an adequate - and far more appealing - substitute? It's the same basic principle as "navel" vs "belly button". One sounds just sounds icky, while the other seems to imply some degree of cleanliness. For example:

Together we can make a difference. Together we can help mankind. USE LESS DISGUSTING WORDS!!! Or don't. And I just won't talk to you. Ever.


Sunday, October 24, 2010

The Deodorant Vandal

Every morning this week I have woken up to find myself in bed with at least three sticks of deodorant.  I didn’t even know that I owned that much deodorant.  I can never find it when I actually need the stuff which is both a burden on me and anyone who happens to walk by me that day.  The thing is, I travel back and forth between school (where I live with my parents) and my actual apartment so much that every day I wake up having no clue where I am for the first 15 seconds of consciousness. 

You know when your friends decide at 4am that it is a good idea to start a game of Risk?  You comply because you have very few friends, and you don’t want to lose these last few nerdy friends even though they participate in outlandish games that involve too much thinking.  You look down at the board, look back up, and all of a sudden it is four days later and you’re not sure how you’ve managed to go this long with peeing.  You also wonder, more importantly, how did you go this long without ice cream?  If you have no idea what I’m talking about, then you probably have cooler friends than I do.  Good for you! If you have some idea of what I’m hinting at, then you need better friends and you now have an idea about the kind of confusion I feel upon waking up in the morning.  Except I am extremely aware that I need to pee.

Being this confused every morning is hard enough, but finding yourself in bed, surrounded by antiperspirant is an entirely new level of perplexing. This was my thought process each morning for the first few mornings waking up to my unexpected guests:

Morning 1: “Where am I?  Grand Rapids? Yes? Yeah.  It’s Monday, and I have to do things.  What is this? Deodorant? Three deodorants? Is that the plural for deodorant? Deodori? That sounds best. Oh, I just threw this stuff on my bed and forgot to clear it off before I went to sleep.  I can eat ice cream later.” 

Morning 2: “Friggin deodori.”

Morning 3: “$^%%O*^%$^%#^%#$!”

Morning 4: “Shouting ‘MONEY SIGN, PERCENTAGE SYMBOL, EXCLAMATION MARK’ yesterday obviously did not intimidate this deodori.”

Morning 5: “Investigation.  **Singing a made-up song in a blues-y manner** Gonna investigate the case of the deodori bum bum bum.”

Before I even got out of bed on morning five, I carefully smelled myself. “Maybe,” I thought, “I’m being overly-careful to make sure that I smell good the next day.  Look at me...caring about others.” 

Nope, that definitely wasn’t it.

Could I have deodorized something else?  Indeed I could have.

There isn’t really anything else in my bedroom other than my bed since I’m poor. To make myself feel better about the severe lack of income, I pretend that I try to live like a minimalist.  Material possessions always suck when I don’t have them.

This left me one choice.  I must have applied deodorant to my wall.  So like the hot stuff that I am, I got out of bed to smell my wall.

***Sniff...Confused Squint...Sniff Again...Squint Some More...AND...***

Found it!

Yeah that’s right, I put deodorant all over my walls.  Now, I have taken Ambien to fall asleep for years which had led me to eat an unfortunate and unplanned amount of calories.  It also causes me to put dry macaroni noodles on my ice cream before consuming which leads to chipped teeth.  Sleep eating is a common occurrence for most people who take Ambien.  However, I am the first person that I have ever heard of that has deodorant-ed their walls.  For a second, I thought that this must have been an act of kindness on my part.  I must care so much for my walls that I want to them to smell nice and have minimal pit-stains.  Then I remembered that I’m not very nice.  If I discovered that I sleep-harassed my walls, that would have made much more sense.  Therefore, it must have been an act of vandalism!  That would continue my streak of being mean and being bad at things!  Sadly, deodorant to wall application is the worst act of vandalism that anyone could ever pull since deodorant rolls on clear and smells like fields of flowers.  If I am a vandal, then I am the worst, but from now on I’d like to be referred to as: The Deodorant Vandal.

-Whitney, The Deodorant Vandal

Friday, October 22, 2010

Unfunny Paper About Humor

I just transferred schools this semester.  The school I am at right now doesn’t really care about the hours of mind-numbing English class I sat through before I transferred. I have to take THEIR English class so because it’s “different.”  But I know their poorly kept secret, they want my monies.  This means that as a senior I am stuck in good ole’ English 101.  In my mind English 101 is a pathetic excuse of an English class.  English 101 is for eighteen year-old girls that learned to spell by texting things like “U R a QTPie.”

Thankfully, I mastered the art of proper sentence endings about 12 years ago, and I always spell out “you” when I text, so I wasn’t worried.

As it turns out, my English professor is ridiculously intelligent (she also looks like Helena Bonham Carter, making her more intimidating/awesome) which throws me into defense mode to prove my that I have even an ounce of smarts.

Teachers very quickly manage to see past my “big and knowledgeable” 5’5” of unbridled mediocrity.

Our first paper came and went, and I did relatively well. 

**Writing Tip**If you want an A in your writing class, join a cult. Then leave it.  I’m serious.  It makes for good writing material.

Then it came time for paper number two.

“Please write a three page paper about an abstract topic.”

“Okay,” I thought.  “Abstract. Depression, love, passive aggressive people, zombies apocalypse.”

I finally landed on humor after throwing around several zombie-related ideas.  Humor is something that I know. We have our modern comedians on TV and online. Tina Fey is funny.  Allie Brosh is funny.  The classics. Carol Burnette, Charlie Chaplin, Groucho Marks.  I got this.

After several hours of work, I had three pages of Star Wars references, 30 Rock quotes, a Beethoven music joke, and a paragraph about why puns are the lowest form of humor.  I managed to avoid talking about farting.  This thing was golden, man.

I passed my 3 pages of my unrivaled perfection down the row of students, hoping that out of the corner of her eye, my teacher would catch the words “Sith Lord” and bow down to me right on the spot.  This didn’t happen, but I still had a chance.  We had to meet the next day for a quick, five minute conference to go over our rough draft.  I knew that my paper wouldn’t have any problems, but I thought I’d give her the opportunity to present me with my “best at all of English” crown.

You can’t tell from the picture, but she’s definitely kneeling.

So the next day I walked into the classroom totally inflated by my own awesomeness.  I sat down in my spinny-chair with a cocky grin on my face.

“Alright Whitney,” she began.

In my mind, this is how all crown presentation ceremonies began.  Things were off to a good start.

And then...


1. Awkward Toothy Smile/Lack of Comprehension

 1. Taking it in
  3. Watching My Crown Get Stabbed

 And so ended any humor-related aspirations that I may have had.



Fun surprises!!!!!!!!!

Fun facts about the people you are working for!!!!!!!!!!! be continued!!!!!!!!!

And Now for Something a Little Inappropriate

Whitney and Ryan went to the store because Ryan got paid, and Whitney mooches off of Ryan because Ryan is the one who makes the money.  All of the Hostess desserts were on sale, so we had to decide which one we wanted.  The conversation went like so:

Ryan: Whaddya think?

Whitney:  Ho Hos are the best.

Ryan: You mean prostitution snacks?

Whitney:  Ho Hos aren’t prostitution snacks.

Ryan: Well then what is?

Whitney:  Cigarettes and a barbecue sauce packet.


So, good people, I now present you with Prostitute Snacks... “Because if you’re a prostitute, this will probably sound good to you.”


Mrs. Potts was a Pregnant Tea Kettle

Tonight Ryan and I watched Beauty and the Beast.  When it ended he kinda squinted his eyes and said, “waaaait a minute...” 

And so it began.

Here’s the deal: when prince/beast was turned into the beast by the pissed-off, hot enchantress lady disguised as a creepy old lady, he had to have been 10 years old.  This is explained by narrator guy who says that the last petal of the rose that appears to have had a fight with some nuclear waste would fall on the prince’s 21st birthday. Then we learn that 10 years had already passed before we meet Belle.  When the spell breaks and prince/beast turns back into prince, he is 20 and not 10.  Okay, I think we got the basics out of the way.  Here’s the problem:  Chip was about three years old when the spell was broken. Think about this...prince/beast was put under the spell at age ten, but he was 20 when the spell broke.  Here is the epic conclusion:

Mrs. Pots must have had Chip while she was a teapot!

This is her shocked that I know her crazy secret:

That’s right you teapot skank.

Now for my question.

It is obvious from the picture that Mrs. Potts could not have carried Chip on her teapot stomach because her fat chin is in the way.  So...where did Chip come from?

I tried drawing a bunch of “baby bumps” on Mrs. Potts, but let’s face it...there is no possible place for her to carry a tea cup.  I would show you my drawing but it looked more like a cancerous mass than a child.  I quickly came to the conclusion that Mrs. Potts must have carried Chip in her spout.

This is my bizarre thought for the evening.

And how about that magic mirror?  Say anything that you want to see, and you will see it?  That has some serious sinful implications.



I am currently single.
While at the moment I don't have a ton of prospects pursuing me, I do have a lot of people trying to set me up with their brothers/sons. It seems that everyone would like me for a sister/daughter in law but no really desires me for a wife at this time. I am ok with this fact…which is why I'm still single.

The other day, however, I did have a guy hit on me at work.
This was odd because when I am at work, usually the only people who talk to me are the ones who want me to do something for them. And I'm not very social at work because I'm always in grumpy-work-mode, counting down the hours till I can leave and hoping that everyone will just leave me alone in the meantime.

But anyways, this guy was named Franco. What kind of a name is that?!?

I decided that "Franco" is a more appropriate name for a gay hairdresser than for my ideal man. My ideal man is a handsome, rugged, crossbow-wielding, bearded lumberjack man. Such a man needs a manlier name….like……….Logan. Yes, Logan would be a good name for him. (**note: I might or might not have just described a hybrid of Hugh Jackman characters. You don't know.)

(1) - dreamy eyes
(2) - nicely trimmed but still scruffy beard
(3) - chest hair
(4) - unbuttoned plaid flannel shirt, exposing chest hair
(5) - axe (crossbow is currently hanging above our fireplace in the cabin Logan singlehandedly built. also, crossbows are hard to draw.)
(6) - muddy boots
Gay hairdresser named Franco:

(1) - faux hawk which probably took like an hour to arrange
(2) - shaven face, as soft and smooth as a baby's butt
(3) - purple shirt ordered online when he was supposed to be working
(4) - shiny shoes

Of course, the real Franco is not gay, obviously. If he was, he wouldn't be hitting on me. And considering the fact that he works with me, he is also not a hairdresser….as far as we know. But on the manliness scale, he was a bit closer to this end of the spectrum then my Ideal Man…
On second thought….

Franco. FRANK. OH.
FRANK O's…??

That sounds like some sort of hot dog cereal. Maybe he is an aspiring exotic cereal inventor.

Ew. Who would want to date THAT guy??? And more importantly, who would want to eat that cereal!?!?!  Oh well. Wait until he finds out that not only do I work with him, but this means that we BOTH work with my MOM. That'll scare him off!  And if that doesn't work, there's always my second tactic…

And of course if THAT doesn't work, I'll sick my lumberjack man on him.


All Cats are Drug Addicts

The cats will be angry, which will almost certainly lead to me death, but I’ve finally figured it out and want to warn you: all cats are addicted to drugs. They have managed to keep it secret for thousands of years, but alas, no longer!

Note about cats:  The Egyptians worshipped cats as gods.  The idea of cats being superior to humans must have been bred into them.  They’ve been thinking that they’re gods for way too long now, and we need to stop them.  On the other hand, if when I died I got a jar for each one of my organs, I would think I was a god too.

I’ve been watching my cat for a couple of days now in attempt to catch him accessing his secret stash.  Usually I look over and see something like this:


NO! Shut up. Not “awww.”

It’s a trap.  A 5000 year-old, perfectly developed, cat trap!

So the other day I was making my daily Easy Mac for lunch since I am both poor and much more capable of working the microwave than the stove. I put the macaroni in, and peered around the corner to find Kitteh asleep on the couch.
But he was just like...

“Dang it, you coy idiot,” I thought.

But I knew what he was doing.  That macaroni has to stay in the microwave for 2 minutes and 30 seconds.  Unfortunately, the stupid cat knows that there the is no way that I am going to break eye contact with food.  That gave him 2 minutes and 30 seconds to do this:


And then he could hide the stash, and go back to his fake sleeping all before my macaroni was done.  By “done” I mean the noodles are soggy enough for me to sprinkle onto them what Kraft suggests is cheese, and it will dissolve with relative ease.  (Unplanned rhyme!) These means I can ingest the processed noodles without encountering any large cheese clumps.  If you do get a cheese clump you have to stab it with your spoon or respective utensil until it disintegrates.  Easy Mac is a true delicacy indeed.

After burning myself once on the bowl as I do everyday, I grabbed the towel hanging on the oven, walked into the living room, to find Kitteh looking at me like this:

And I look back at Kitteh like this:

He knew that I knew his secret!

We stared at each other like this for a couple seconds as I realized that I should probably fear for my life.  Knowing Kitteh’s secrets could not have positive consequences.  Plus, nothing looks at you like this unless it is planning on killing you.  Without breaking eye contact, I managed to slowly inch back into the kitchen to hide and so that I could concoct a scheme that would get me out of the apartment without being killed my my high cat. I pictured one of three things happening next:

 Kitteh would get distracted by the PlayStation chord for the next few hours and then he was going to come into the kitchen and shiv me.
 Kitteh would go back into a drug-induced coma and sleep for the next 4 days before he would wake up, come into the kitchen, and shiv me.
Kitteh would not sleep or get distracted, and he was going to come straight into the kitchen to shiv me.

I’m not sure how to end this story because none of these three things happened.  I stayed in the kitchen for twenty minutes because not only was I afraid, but I found the kitchen floor to be a pleasant place to eat Easy Mac.