The Cat

I thought it was better. I just missed the signs. The bulimia is raging. She's just gotten better about hiding her tracks. I bought a new bottle of Resolve, thinking that would handle the occasional upset tummy. But this really is a sickness. She wakes me up in the middle of the night, crying for fresh food. God forbid if she can see the bottom of her bowl.

She walks around my head and starts licking sensitive areas (like my armpit) with her sandpaper tongue. Or my face. With the same tongue she's just used to lick her butthole. No wonder her breath stinks. I'm gonna get some dread disease, I'm sure. Then she started scratching last night. Fuck. Even though she doesn't go outside, I'm supposed to treat her for fleas. I'm down to the last little vial. It's a major ordeal when it's time for me to squirt the harmless little bit of medicine on the back of her neck. She digs her claws into my thigh. Runs and hides for a day or two. Until The D starts his version of Cat Baby Talk. It makes me ill.

The bulimia's bad enough. She also has pica. Which means she has cravings for non-food items. Like wood. The unglazed porcelain under the toilet tank. My forearm.

Fuck. I have two piles of vomit to clean up and she's lying on my sham licking herself all over like some kinda porn star. I guess they do that. She seems into pleasuring herself, anyway.

I hope I'll wake up in a better mood tomorrow. As always, it's dicey.