my cat has been fucking playing me for weeks, playing me like a fucking harp. I feed my cat twice a day with prescribed diet food because she’s really fat and doesn’t know when she’s full so she never stops eating. usually when I come home from class she is all over me like the whore of babylon all over me putting on a pity party and trying to get me to sin and give her more food but no matter what I only feed her the amount of food for her prescribed diet. but after awhile i started noticing that she wasn’t loosing weight at all and was actually just getting fatter. so I called the vet pissed and i’m just like the fuck she’s still getting fat. so I switched her to another diet food and that still didn’t work and I was so confused and frustrated like what is wrong with this cat? so a couple weeks go by and I start noticing that I go through bags of food really fast like a week fast and I remembered how I thought that was so weird like I God honest could not figure out why the food disappeared so fast (my former naive and innocent mind) well y'all ready here’s the fucking climax - the other day my class was canceled and I come downstairs at like noonish and do you know what I see when I get down? I see my fucking cat sitting in the food bin. with my own two eyes I see her sitting in the fucking food bin. my spoiled ass cat has been eating like a fucking queen and living it the fuck up while I’m in class and then pretends like she’s hungry when I get home. and you know what’s the real kicker? when she leaves the lid gets knocked shut which is why i never caught onto her scam. she’s fucking been working the system and playing the food game right under my fucking nose like i want to scream and now I have to call the vet and the morning and explain to him how I, a well educated adult in college, got one-upped in intelligence by my fucking cat
Everyone in the comments talking about how a woman is born with all her eggs and has them her whole life but a sperm cell is only made maybe a couple of days before conception and now all I can think of is that one really weird week, right before Edward and Bella get married, where Jacob is freaking out because he finds Edward smoking hot out of nowhere and that’s why he was being weird at the wedding.
Reposting this because some of y’all need a reminding.
Another reminder:
VOTE YOUR WHOLE BALLOT.
A Democratic President does nothing if Congress is controlled by Republicans. Your local elections are important, too. (It took us 20 years, but you notice we don’t have issues with our sheriff out here in Phoenix now we’ve voted out Joe Arpaio.)
Don’t skip any. Look up names on your phone while you’re in the ballot booth if you have to. VOTE YOUR WHOLE BALLOT.
Don’t tell your daughter that when a boy is mean or rude to her it’s because he has a crush on her. Don’t teach her that abuse is a sign of love.
My mom always taught me yell or fight back. Boys would be mean and I would yell back. I would get my ass pinched and I would smack them as hard as I could.
Who alway got in trouble? Me.
They would call my mother and she always came in and lectures my teachers and threatened to sue for making her miss work and treating me poorly.
She always taught my brothers to respect women. The only fights my brothers ever got in was defending women from someone else.
The school tried to call my father once instead of my mother on us. He came in in his full preacher outfit (being a preacher and all) and gave them an entire sermon on what would Jesus day of he was called in. They decided dealing with my mom was better.
I think my favorite story of this is when some kid snapped my bra and I turned around, didn’t even think about it, and punched that little motherfucker right in the nose.
So naturally, I end up in the principal’s office, refusing to apologize.
“He shouldn’t have put his hands on me and I wouldn’t have hit him!” That’s the only thing I was saying.
These people had the unfortunate luck of catching my dad at home, instead of my mom. So he comes fucking sauntering in there, like he’s Clint fucking Eastwood in some western movie and looks at me.
“Melissa, did you punch him?”
“Yes.” I said.
“Why?”
“Because he snapped my bra strap.”
And he turns his squinty eyed glare to the principal and says, “You’re telling me my daughter is in trouble because that squirrely looking kid put his hands on her and she chose to defend herself? That’s what you are saying to me.”
“Well, sir-” The man kind of stuttered because my dad is kind of intimidating in the quiet sort of way that kind of whispers in the back of your mind that this person could be dangerous. “Melissa did make it physical.”
“No. That kid put his hands on my daughter. Are you saying my daughter cannot defend herself when some boy decides to put hands on her? Is that what you are teaching my girl?”
