Well fancy seeing you here...

Hello and welcome to the rambling rollercoaster of useless ponderings, strung together in what the internet calls a "blog," and the voices call a waste of everyone elses time.

Please check your sanity at the door (along with your dignity, logic, principles, good taste and prejudices against daftness.)

"I am here to seduce you into a love of life; to help you to become a little more poetic; to help you die to the mundane and to the ordinary so that the extraordinary explodes in your life." -Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

Saturday, 26 April 2008

Evil Cats and Custard Terrorism

As I have to try and wake before midday tomorrow - and it is already not too far off 5:00am - today's entry will be a little shorter than usual. (Must you look quite so relieved?)

The main thing that has driven this Saturday, is my notice that the cat is displaying some very evil behaviour. Not exorcist evil - for one thing: she's a cat, and as such it is not possible for her to grip a crucifix. It began when I awoke this morning to find that I'd left myself a note - written on my hand, despite having post-it-notes dotted around everywhere. Goodness knows why that is, bit it said - rather disturbingly - "The cat is up to something. Follow her." Now, I'd been awake about 40hrs by this point (assuming I wrote it not long before I went to sleep last night) so a little insanity is not surprising.

The message:

Quite what I meant at the time I don't know, but Tuppence has been acting oddly today, too. She watched the bit of the news from outside Buckingham Palace with a distinctly royalist look in her eye. I think she is plotting a coup. She is definitely desirous of overthrowing the government. She has also been terrorizing the dog all day, and even now looks as though she is plotting something nefarious. I think she's waiting for me to sleep, so she might initiate a 'Pinky and the Brain' style bid for world domination. She'll begin by lobotomising next-door's gerbils, who will become her ne'er do well henchmen. (Gerbils may seem ineffectual foot soldiers, but Pinky was a complete idiot and still found gainful employment, so I shall not discriminate against the rodents until they have had a chance to prove themselves.)

Alternately, she may just have eaten too many kit-e-bits, and have indigestion which always makes her look haughtily vicious. (Lucosade gives the dog indigestion. I don't think they are designed to react well with Lucosade.) Acid reflux or no, I still think the cat is up to something. I'm sure that I will some day arise to news that she is ruler of the universe. ...Thoughts like these are why I do not allow myself to watch too much sci-fi. I still think the 'X-Files' is plausible. Fox Mulder would love a nihilistic feline sociopath with designs on the galaxy. He'd not love her so much when she replaced Barrack Obama as the likely presidential candidate. (In which case, she would obviously win, as I would hope that even my cat could beat Hilary Clinton.)

I mentioned this idea to a friend, and it says a great deal about my relationship with the girl that instead of calling for psychiatric help, she just politely inquired if my cat has a Visa. I think she was probably mocking my suspicions, but nonetheless I informed her that - whatever plans Tuppence does have - they are unlikely to be legitimate and so would not require a valid work permit. She's a furry terrorist! ...Thinking about it, that is a far from uniquely identifying nickname. Most terrorists are reasonably hirsute (if seldom calico.) I'm not convinced that one would live very long after calling Osama Bin Laden a "furry terrorist," though. As I doubt he reads this, I can do so fearlessly. (If he does read this, then I hope he sends me a one of those video's that usually get played on Al Jazeera, as it'd really increase the hits to my FB page, and would piss off the 99.9% of the world who can't access it. I think irritating the world would be worth the slight embarrassment at having Bin Laden as a 'friend.' Wouldn't dare poke him, but would be interested to see how he'd respond to my "what's the best thing you've ever overheard," question.)

To avoid any unpleasant confusion, I should probably say now that I resolutely object to everything he's ever said/done/thought/smelt/tasted/felt/enjoyed, and find the possibility of his continued existence an affront to human decency. (...But still...add me!)

I think my brain has yet to recover from yesterday. Speaking to a friend this evening, I suggested that anyone who refuses to admit that the world revolves around me, "should be shot - with custard from a water pistol - until they concede my magnificence." I'm not so far gone that I don't know that's probably not a common conversation for other people to have.

I also realise that I should refer to my friends by name when I mention them here - unless it is embarrassing to do so (for someone other than myself; as I think I'm long past concern for my own dignity.) However, identifying people in this context feels as unnatural to me as hearing Juliet speak of Macbeth, or Elizabeth Bennett talk of Marianne Dashwood. As the author, I remain constant: but to me you are each characters in your own, individual stories - and I find myself reluctant to blend the narratives. Narcissism demands exclusivity. I believe you exist to entertain me - not each other. Egotism insists that I secure your attention by occasionally being mildly entertaining in return.

I also think it's easier for you all to check how mad I am if you can research my anecdotes. What I shrug off as eccentricity in the retelling often sounds plain bonkers when explained by someone else, even if they were there for the original incident. Here, you think some of the unbelievably ridiculous things I say are exaggerated. If you could check the source, then you'd learn they are often underplayed.

That's a secret, though. So please continue under the delusion that I am wonderful - or you'll face the Ambrosia Devon Firing Squad until you learn.

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