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I type for a living. There is a point in the day where Buttercup, one of our cats, demands my attention by climbing into my lap and headbutting my hands. You know how hard it is to type with a cat head butting your hands?! But it’s cute.

That’s it. This cannot be reality. I’m in a psychological torture experiment, a simulation run by sadists, or in purgatory. 

As a young child, I always thought adult conversations would be rich, deep, philosophically stimulating, intellectual, and well thought out.

Instead, those conversations are a lot more like:
“Eh. So, like, maybe we could spend less money for a while?”

We need to have a serious discussion about witches titties.

Dog says while she’s really like to she is not pooping in this stuff

Me staring into the bedroom.

Cathy: “What’s wrong?”

Me: “I think I need to carry a second flashlight.”

Cathy: “you are just walking upstairs!” *shakes head*

Turns out a decent yawn defeats facial recognition