Cats are gross, and mine is no exception.

She sheds way too much, defecates inside, and thinks that I want to touch her all of the time. She must think that I want to touch her, because I don’t believe—even for a second—that she harbors so much resentment towards me that she would rub all over me just to cover me in her hair. Cats don’t have emotions, so it couldn’t be love either. I’m sure if she could feed herself she would have kicked me out of the house a long time ago.

It wasn’t so bad having a sheddy cat until I moved into this apartment. It would turn out that plain countertops show cat hair more. Who would have thought, right? Now all I see when I look at her is the disgusting cat funk she leaves all over everything. When I pet her, I get cat hair all up in everything; my nose, my eyes, my beard, my mouth—all of it. And she doesn’t just sit still and take it when I pet her, she has to move around because what I do for her isn’t good enough. It’s like I don’t know how to please her properly. She turns around in a circle, whipping me with her tail every three steps.

When I try to move her, she attaches herself to my shirt.

When the meowing for food in the morning finally ceases, I will know that my time is up. (Possibly on earth, but more probably in the apartment.)