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A Day In The Life…Or Something

September 28th, 2016

Caught! Little fucker.

Caught! Little fucker.

Today, we moved the litter box upstairs. And by we, I mean me.

Yes, litter box, singular. I realize the general rule is one cat, one box, but M doesn’t want two boxes. Is adamant that we not have two boxes. So we’ve got one.

We moved it for everyone’s comfort. We originally put it in the bathroom because why not, right? There was room, and we poop in the bathroom so why shouldn’t the cats poop in the bathroom? Plus, with the litter box in the bathroom, I’m forced to clean it every day because it’s right there in our faces, and who wants to take a bath with a stinky litter box? Not me, that’s for sure.

I mean, not that I go more than one day without cleaning it. That’s just gross. And Bash insists on stepping in the poop and then walking it all over the house, so even if I wanted to go more than one day without cleaning it, I can’t, because that little turd will spread his turd love everywhere.

I don’t want your turd love, kitty.

At the old place, we kept the box in the laundry room because it was the only place there was room. We only ever went into the laundry room to do laundry, or throw out trash, or use the back door, so the smell wasn’t in our face very often. And Bash fucking stinks. Like, we’ve had guests leave our house because Bash took a shit and stunk up the entire house.

Besides that, he is petrified of his litter box. I really don’t know why. My only guess is the washer (which is in the bathroom) here is so much louder than the washer at the old place when it changes cycles, and the wire shelf between the washer and dryer squeaks a lot. So because he’s petrified of the litter box, he runs out of it as fast as he can when he’s finished, and scatters litter all over the floor in the bathroom. Every. Single. Time. I’ve been sweeping the bathroom 3-4 times a day, and even that’s not enough because he comes in while I’m in the shower, or something, and then by the time I get out of the shower, the floor is covered in cat litter again.

He’s also afraid of the dryer, and the bathroom heater, and the bathtub. And his shadow.

So for our comfort, and for his comfort, the litter box was moved upstairs.

Nobody has used it since. In fact, the little fuckers have been throwing temper tantrums since I moved it.

Like, dude! You’re afraid of the washing machine, AND the dryer, AND the bathroom heater, AND the tub. How is this not a good thing for you? Silly kitty.

Luckily, “throwing temper tantrums,” for our cats, consists of whining and fighting, and not pissing and shitting all over the house, because I don’t know if I could deal with that just now. I know M wouldn’t. He’d lose his shit. And I don’t blame him. We’ve got beautiful wood floors, and brand new carpet in the living room and our bedroom. And not even the shitty kind of carpet that most people put in rentals. Actual cushy, comfy carpet that looks really nice and feels amazing on our feet. Which was put in because the landlord’s cats shit all over the carpet that was in there. So you can imagine how happy anyone will be if our cats start pissing and shitting everywhere.

In order to put the litter box upstairs, I had to break down a bunch of boxes, and put a bunch of stuff in the attic. Which, of course, meant that I bashed my head on the doorframe to the attic because it’s at the perfect height for me to bash my head, and the cats were trying to get in while I was trying to get out without letting them in. Go me!

Then I took the recyclable stuff out to the bin, and took the trash out, and cleaned up the kitchen, and did a quick wipe down of the bathroom. I read a bunch of political articles about the debate, and tried not to lose my shit over the mentally ill epileptic man who was killed by police in California, and tried to say the right words to keep M from losing his shit about his monumentally shitty day.

And now, here I’m sat, writing this blog post, instead of the countless other things I should be writing because I can’t find the words.

I mean, there’s been tons of interesting sex. Shortly after we moved in, we had sex on the back deck. The other night, M had me kneel in whipping position and whipped my back with the Bettie Page whip. Last night, M fucked my mouth and rubbed his cock all over my tits while I fucked myself with a Tantus dildo. I just haven’t wanted to write about those things. These days, though, it’s less about privacy, and more about wanting to ramble about vanilla stuff.

I guess everything has its time and place and it’s just not the sex writing’s time. It will be again, I’m sure.

Funnily enough, I’m not beating myself up about it. I mean, there’s more to being a 24/7 pleasure slave than sex. The reality is there’s a ton of domestic service involved, from cleaning up cat shit, to cooking fries in the middle of the night.

But I should probably get to those reviews I’m behind on. Still procrastinating because of a lightbulb. 😅

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