I’m in trouble.
These past three months have been a rollercoaster ride. And I’ll honestly tell you that I may or may not have had about 15 ‘I’m gonna die alone’ moments that may or may not have been fueled by drinking, or tears, or both.
After several of these binges I would find my search history slapping me in the face the next morning showing very telling signs of my apparent booze-infused obsession with getting myself a kitten. Because sad, lonely and dried-up-prunes of bitter ne’er-get-a-man women…just…need…cats. Lots of em. And I fit that bill. Apparently.
When I posted a blog earlier today it was (regardless of my DON’T DO IT-disclaimer) followed by a myriad of kind words that would speak in favor of me not necessarily becoming that crazy hermit. Or cat lady.
But I just received an email from one of the shelters I (apparently) approached to acquire such a beasty – confirming my appointment to have my house assessed.
Guess I’m getting a cat.