Meh.

I'm turning into a crazy hormonal bitch with cabin fever recently, a seriously bad combination. I've wanted to rip LovesHerDog's head off because Australia won the match and she gloated. (Bah. Truly, football is more dangerous than politics.) I've also wanted to rip LovesHerDog's head off because she won't stop talking in a manner calculated to let you know just how special she is. Recently I've been pondering the merits of having a small dogskin rug when LovesHerDog's dog keeps insisting on being petted one too many times. (White goes with everything.) I've been living in the same pair of jeans for weeks and the idea of throwing them in the wash seems like too much effort. I haven't left the house except to go grocery shopping and I feel like pointless violence might make my life a better place. I want to wrap my arms around Punky's legs and screech that he can't move out and leave me. My writing muse appears to have died a short sharp death. I'm a massive prickly ball grump, grouch and snark, and probably a complete nightmare to live with (although I srill wash up every time, so it can't be all that bad).

The cure for all this is the airline ticket that will take me home in three days time.

Please note that you are all expcted to shower me with obscene amount of affection and attention. Ego, I will defintiely take you up on your offer of The Butter Factory. The Other Cat, as you have subscribed to watch the World Cup, please note that you will find yoruself saddled with an occaisional Slinky (I can make you brownies to make up for it). Miss C, Miss J, we are going for a very long bitch and club session, no excuses. Break out the black eyeliner. The rest of you, you have been warned. I'm coming home and taking no prisoners.