Do not even attempt to fuck with me, I know where you ssssleep. MEOWSIES!
For the past couple days The Bandit has been waiting outside the door at 6am when he knows (obviously he's been stalking us, bandit-style) I'll be feeding Stevie Nicks and now his sneaky ass. This morning, after he finished eating, he let me pet him for the first time and then take this photo before mysteriously vanishing into the mist.
Oh my God. It's official. I'm a cat lady. Does this mean I need to start wearing enormous muumuus, eating quarts of Haagen Dazs and hoarding Christmas ornaments purchased at yard sales until Serge divorces me, gets custody of the kids and the postman finally discovers my bloated body - along with several cat carcasses - beneath a pile of newspapers, pizza boxes and empty ice cream containers? Or is that just a stereotype? I mean, have you ever met a hip Cat Lady, is what I'm asking?