Got to sleep in a little late this morning due to the pets not stirring what with the gray and overcast skies.
But after I got up, I found out that the kitties hadn’t been idle during the night:
That’s right. A mouse. Under my dining-table chair. Dead, fortunately.
While they weren’t quite as proud of themselves as the last time they caught a mouse (when, seriously, all three of them met me at the door and then sat by the dead mouse looking for praise), I’m happy that they’re still killing things. I just wish there weren’t things in here to kill.
Which now makes me middle-aged. And if there is one thing that I have learned this year, it’s that middle-aged feminists are by turns useless, obstinate, dried-up, bitter, obstructive to “real” feminist issues like reproductive rights because their uteri have surely all fallen out, unfuckable, unhip, unimportant, spiteful, racist, deluded, not people to be associated with, not people who are needed to be members of organizations chasing shiny new members, dangerous, dry-pussied, possessed of a martyr complex, not needed, not worth listening to, and, most importantly, In The Way.
Yet, despite the insignificance and marginality of middle-aged feminists, there sure are a lot of people obsessed with their (our?) plans for November.
Dunno about November, but tonight I’ve got plans to take a class so I can learn to make seitan.
Worst browser in the history of browsers?
Discuss.
… this election’s going to kill me.
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