So I reach up to turn off the lamp above my computer, and knock a Muse candle in glass holder down onto the keyboard. This sets off a chain reaction involving the monitor, Tarot cards, a binder, and various implements of evil and destruction, including the box that has the "clean" marital aids. (lube, condoms, the 'not going in there' and the 'throw away after each use' items.)
LF asked, voluntarily, if he could please have the almighty privelege of washing dishes. Since I was feeling magnimonious, I granted him it. Thus, I cleaned catboxes as he washed plates.
I got to hang up the first strip of flypaper, too. No matter how good my intentions are, fruit flies, only they aren't after fruit, collect in the catbox.
The plural of 'catbox' is not 'catboxen'.
I'm a really easy drunk. I'm also still embarrassingly stuck on my girlfriend and Darkside when drunk. Some bonds just need time to flower in person.
I can be a well-behaved, refined sweetheart when I choose to be so. I can also be a royal fucking bitch. I do both in special showings for obnoxious relatives.