Cat Clock

I stayed up late watching some dreadful Hugh Grant movie called "Sirens," whose only redeeming quality was plenty of tall, naked women cavorting around.
My overgrown kitty James went to sleep early so he'd be plenty fresh to awaken at 6 a.m. so he could stroll his 14 pounds up and down my torso, meow kitty breath in my face, roll around a lot while crashing into my ribs, put his wet nose against mine and otherwise wake me up at an alarmingly early hour. Ha. Wait till I catch the little bastard cat napping later.
Six Feet Under last night was surprisingly calm.
The gay brunch was pretty accurate, if memory serves. I've been the token dyke at so many of those I can still smell the mimosas. If I was Keith I would have left early, too. Too many nelly queens in one room makes my head hurt, like chugging a slushie too fast.
Ruth and her little friend Arthur make me want to track down Kathy Bates and beg her to come back on the show. Ruth singing "My Favorite Things" to Arthur's creepy organ accompaniment made my stomach a little queasy.
Claire's boyfriend Russell? Please kid, wash that fucking hair, it's just unsanitary. Instead of spending $50 on a tube of cobalt blue oil paint, go to a barber and get a cut and a flea dip, fer chrissakes.
As for Lisa, Nate and Brenda, please, someone get Lisa outta there. Brenda is going through a phase of temporary sanity and Nate needs to jump back in and mix her up.
Brenda telling Nate she hadn't been with anyone since they split up was catnip for his wounded ego. Nothing stirs up a man like thinking his formerly slutty girlfriend has suddenly regrown her virtue. Yeow.