Cranky Pat.

While I’m not a “Pat”, I am cranky.
When I was a child and acting like a total jerk, I was often informed by my Irish grandparents that I was being a “Cranky Pat”.

I worked out all week. Guess who gained two pounds? Guess who ate diuretics and lax for dinner tonight? I’m just so, so angry today. I got home from work and J informed me he got all of this new shit to redo part of the kitchen (without asking for any of my input). Mind you, he freaked out on me like, six months ago because I bought a new fucking COMFORTER for the bed without consulting with him.
Then he goes to the grocery store while I fix myself a salad. He comes home with some shitty lukewarm pierogis from some dirty-ass FOOD TRUCK and is perplexed why I don’t want to eat any of them.

God. Just…just leave me the fuck alone for a day or two.

Thankfully, I have a yoga class tomorrow, then a blissful day with my books and tea.

It’s nights like this that I miss my little studio apartment. I miss my Tigger kitty. I miss my solitude.

Speaking of Tig, I dreamed of him a LOT again last night. The poor little kitteh has been gone for going on three years this June.
He was my 12th birthday present. He was my first pet. I picked him out as a kitten at the local humane society. He stuck with me through thick and thin, for a good 18 years. His last six years he was diabetic, getting insulin shots from me two times a day. He took them like a champ and never wavered from his awesome kitty-self.
I’ll never stop missing that amazing fuzzbutt.

Ok, time for bed. When feeling this sorry for yourself, the best thing to do is just go to sleep, and you can guarantee everything will be better tomorrow, yeah? Yeah. ❤

About LilyQuits

I'm a mess.
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