reserved for c. jepson

lacking inspiration, feeling wrung out like a dirty dishcloth, i asked james what i should write about tonight. he said smugly, "the happiest most joyous thing you can think of. " perhaps that was a response to my surly mood. so what, said i, maybe i'm coming down with a cold. i feel all funny and grouchy and tired and boggy.

here it is folks (insert drum roll): the truth is, i was stumped. i, for the life of me, couldn't even think of what the happiest most joyous thing could possibly be. i mean, really. come on. seriously? just then, as if mr. universe himself was answering my call, max the cat (aka. maxi-pads, max-a-million, max-a-covious) started swatting a leaf around in an aggressively acrobatic manner on the floor. he quickly moved on to bigger and better things, attacking my shoes, grabbing one and rolling onto his back, kicking with both hind legs, and then pouncing up, using them as a blind to attack the crumpled tissue in front of them. i laughed out loud, and let out a sigh of exasperated surrender. my cats, i love them, they make me happy, they are so ridiculous they make me laugh out loud, they make my day, every day. every stinkin day.

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