40 Virgins and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

So I’m working on a list of demands. He has the kitty refugee hostages, and I’m making the demands.

Damn skippy.

It’s nothing fun, just the usual: shot record, copy of medical record, receipts, and oh, what-do-you-call-that-never-call-me-again-under-penalty-of-death thing? I want one of those, too. Actually, I want a couple of those.

Just in case the first one fails. Because it will, I’m sure. Eventually.

I’m dreading this confrontation. I’m dreading it so much that I may have made myself sick over it. Probably not, but I do have a headache that even now, is doing something inside my skull that is very,very,very reminiscent of a demolition crew.

And I can feel my temples twitching as I think about this meeting.

I’m dreading seeing the cats, first of all, in such a bad condition. In the back of my head, though, I keep HOPING that he’s lying for dramatic effect, but I know in my gut that he’s not.

I’m dreading it because I worry about my tongue. I have a smart mouth. I have a particularly smart mouth when I am pissed.

And, oh, I am still pissed.

And I know that being an asshole back will NOT make the cats any better, or remove what I feel like is his ultimate betrayal, or do anything that will make the situation better.

But I just don’t know if I can be that good of a person, to not strike out.

On the funny side, he seems adamant that I meet his new girlfriend. Of course, if I turn out not to be able to control my tongue, that might be something that he may find himself regretting.

I wonder if I should write her a thank-you note? Give her cook books and sex manuals for Christmas? Do everything in my power to help her be the bestest girlfriend ever?

I’ve heard how wonderful she is. I can’t help thinking, though, if she’s so wonderful, why has he been trying so hard to keep up contact with me?


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