flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
My Charlie cat is sweet and lovable and charming and clumsy as all hell. He never scratches me on purpose, but he loves being on my lap or my shoulder, at which point he will occasionally lose his balance and latch on to me like a goddamned . . . thing . . . pointy. . . grippy. . . fuck. Never mind, similes have deserted me. Anyway, he either sinks in the foreclaws, which is manageable because he’s very patient about me clipping them, or scrabbles with the hind claws, which is why I have lovely tit decorations, if by decorations you mean ‘red scratchy welts’.
Thanks, Charlie. Love you too.
“I will love you TO DEATH” – Charlie, who as it happens it named after Charlie Chaplin but failed to inherit any of his grace, and also is probably codependent.