True life.

Sometimes, at dinner or over brunch, my friends will ask me how my cat is. “How is Helen?” They’ll say, in the same tone of voice used to ask after ill relatives or new boyfriends. I think they think they’re being funny, but it’s really just weird. I have no good answer because my cat is almost always the same. Nothing happens to her. She’s a cat. But I’ll indulge them. “The way she always is,” I’ll say. “A piece of shit. I fucking hate her.” I Fucking Hate My Cat

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