Dear god.

To paraphrase the inimical Jules from Pulp Fiction, I've been travelling the world like Kain, having adventures and shit.

Since returning to civilisation, and the ubiquitous internet connection, I have secured employment. I have re-purchased all the necessary paraphenalia which every self respecting prosecutor surrounds himself with. A Mercedes. Stainless steel cufflinks which are designed to look exactly like an asprin, which unscrew to reveal... An asprin. HDTV. A fucking big television, washing machines, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest morgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure-wear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrasment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life.

Sorry.

I came over all Renton there for a second.

You see good citizens of the blogosphere... I enjoy your company. It seems strange to me that the flesh and blood humans with which I have to integrate are all somehow feeble. Weak and febrile. No-one seems to be full colour, full-fat, visceral pure and real. Everyone seems kinda pale and shit and stupid.

I suspect, in my weaker moments, that I have some dangerous superiority complex that is going to lead to a catastrophic Norman Bates/Christian Bale type conflagration. At other times I lament that I have been abandoned by Odin to be tormented by either by the Jotun, or more particularly a succession of fucking retard flatmates.

Having crested Huayna Picchu, swum in the Zambezi and bungied out of a fucking hot air balloon in a scorching, bleeding, blinding red sunset above a fucking desert, I foolishly believed that I was beginning to understand my place in the universe.

I came back to the UK and got the aforementioned job. And decided to get a place. It is a cottage in a tiny town near the city I live in. Surrounded by farms and deciduous forests. It takes me not too long to drive into work and park in my own space.

My housemates are Tigger and Loose. Loose is my landlord. She is lovely. She has a little king Charles spaniel, which is a cool little dog. Got a real personality. Or dogality. Whatever.

But of course good people, there is a lining of shit to this particular cloud of spun dreams.

You see, I am a cat hater. It is a personality trait which some people regard as a defect. It is how I am. I can't help it.

Tigger is a cat. A fluffy motherfucker. This thing yowls when it wants food. It yowls when it wants company. It yowls when it wants out. Sometimes, as far as I can scientifically determine, it just yowls.

So I come back from work in my suit on Friday. The place is abandoned, as it has been every day now for a week. My suits are fucking expensive. They have to be. And this cunt of a cat rubs itself all over my legs, yowling. I don't want to hurt the thing, but I have to dodge its foul embrace. I dance the little dance of squeamishness and rage. I hiss. I poke at it. I throw bunches of keys at it. I feed it, I usher it out, I attempt to placate it with fluffy squeaky objects.

The fluffy fucker persists. Ecstatically rubbing its head on my cuffs. It foams at the mouth, eyes rolling with pleasure. Sexual pleasure.

By the time its evil work is over I look like I'm wearing fucking Ugg boots.

I hate cats.

Hatred is a transferrable property of the possession to the owner.

The cat is my flat mate's.

quod erat demonstrandum, I hate my flatmate.

I am back.