Whipped
Zeugma likes to bring me gifts when I’m working. They’re usually tiny balls of shredded and masticated paper she salvages from my office wastebasket when she sulks at the bottom of it because I’m not paying her enough attention. She’ll claw her way up my leg to the desk and spit it out on the keyboard.
Problem is, she sometimes steps on the esc key when she does it. And when I’m online, that means the witty and pleasant and insightful four-paragraph comment on somebody else’s weblog I’ve just composed . . . just . . . disappears. And I’m like, “You bitch. You bitch. You bitch. You bitch. You. . . awww.”
This is the third time she’s done it in two weeks. We’re going to have to have us a chat about boundaries.
Soon as I get her little purring face out of my clavicle.