My blood pressure was 86/53 this morning. That’s not even a number. It’s like I made it up or something. Once I stood up, it got to 113/95. That’s normal. I can deal with that. It’s no wonder I’m light-headed when I’m lying down. I’m not getting enough oxygen. I had to go look at what I wrote down to remember what numbers it was. The doctor wants to know. I want to know what my oxygenation was when I was at 86/53. Seriously. Am I getting brain damage? I don’t want to get brain damage. I drank too much in college to be able to afford that.
Am I supposed to be chatty or crabby this morning? I forgot. The cats are yowling at me and pacing. That’s because I got back into the habit of feeding them in the morning. It’s really hard to ignore Seth whenever he asks for food because he’s so skinny. Right now, he’s standing on the bed behind me and rubbing his face on my shoulder.
Yes, I am really cramped at my desk. I don’t have the blood pressure to rearrange things. I’m stuck the way they are. I’m beginning to be like one of those hoarders, not able to take care of myself enough to keep the pile and the cat population from overtaking me.
But Seth is very cute, rubbing his face against my shoulder. I love that, but I can’t concentrate. If he were a predator, I’d be worried about now. He is a predator, but fortunately, he thinks of me as part of his family unit. If those two wanted to take me down, I’d bet they could do it. They worked together to wake me up without me realizing they were waking me up. See, if they piss me off by making too much noise, I refuse to feed them until much later. They’ve learned that I have to think I woke up naturally. I’ve seen them do it with Mike, quietly mewling at his door or putting a paw on the door to bounce it in its frame then casually walking away. He never knows what woke him.
Ergh. This is definitely a crabby. Plus, it’s crap. I’m sitting here, not being able to think clearly because my blood pressure is weirdly low, and I’m writing crap while wondering if anything’s happening on Twitter. I’m addicted to Twitter.
I’m not publishing this shit. It’s shit. I can’t fucking think with this cat staring over my shoulder at the back of my head. Where’s the other one? I can’t see the other one. Why can’t I see the other one?
I just now spun around and leaned forward to see the box at the end of the bed. He was crouched and staring at me. This is why I feed them in the morning. They keep staring at me. They’re all cute until they’re staring at the back of your head while you try to type.
I’m sure this is why I keep waking up before six in the morning. They’re in collusion together to get the good food. Seth, the old one, taught the young one how to stay quiet enough not to piss me off.
By the way, I should tell you that they do, in fact, have food. They always have some kibble in bowls in two different places in the house. They just don’t want that food. That’s the boring food. They want the good stuff that I hide in the cabinet.
Now they’re fighting over the bed. Dudes! It’s a fucking queen-sized bed! There’s room for both of you. There’s a shit-ton of room on the bed. Eight cats would fit on this bed with a generous margin around each cat if they were alternated like cookies on a cookie sheet.
Yesterday, Nick walked into the living room and announced that we should have four cats. Then, he showed me a video with four cats cuddled up together and being very sweet. I would never survive a morning with four cats. If I managed to make it through the yowling-pacing moment or the staring-at-the-back-of-my head moment, I’d die during the fight over the queen-sized bed. I’d be slashed to ribbons. Thoughts and prayers for the hoarding cat lady.
Thank you for listening, jules