Asshole Cats and The Women Who Love Them – A Guide to Understanding the Men in Your Life.

Why is it when I’m trying to put Max down for a nap or for the night, that damn cat has to meow like his life depends on it?  Or  he purrs so loud that Max wakes up, smiling, ready to play with the damn cat and it takes me 30 more minutes of being a human pacifier to get him back down, but when I’m alone in the house, the damn cat is not to be found.

Why does he have to sleep in the exact spot on the pillow that my head is on.  Seriously, he lays across my face.

Why does he have to play mouse with my ponytail until my scalp bleeds because I can’t get that damn cat out of my hair.  Fuck, bring on the rabid bats.  Can’t hurt more than that damn cat’s claws that he will not let me clip without shredding the skin on my arms and legs.

Cats are assholes.

I’m uncomfortable with the implications of the similarities between my cat and my husband.

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