He doesn’t find this as funny as I do…

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Sleeping Mancandy is a jerkwad. He knows this, I know this, it is what it is. Yesterday I was pretty darn high on some sort of allergy concoction. After untold time staring into the distance my eyes dried out, my contacts revolted, and I decided sleep was a fine idea. I felt the bed move a bit and knew one of the cats had joined me, but I didn’t pay any attention before passing out. I woke up to notice a few things. Tsuki was my bed buddy, her snortles are really adorable, the dog also snores pretty darn cute, and something stunk like cat pee. Thankfully it wasn’t me. Unfortunately, it was Tsuki.

I would love to know how the cat ends up occasionally reeking of cat piss, but she’s not telling. My theory is that another cat pees on her face in a dominance thing. Mancandy thinks she’s just gross and rolls in it. Either way, it is her head that stinks. Not her backend (in case anyone thinks I’m just too stupid to notice the cat has a urinary tract infection).

I stripped the sheets and my comforter (of course she decided to lay on my blanket) and put them out to wash after I was through washing clothes. I went downstairs to do stuff and promptly forgot about the clothes in the wash much less the stinky bed stuff. When we made our way upstairs to get ready for bed last night, I realized I didn’t have a blanket. I had clean sheets that I had handily not bothered to fold and put away from the last time I did laundry, so I just popped those on and figured I’d share Mancandy’s blanket for one night.

Yes, we have separate blankets. Yes, I’d forgotten why we’d even started that. We started it because he’s a jerkface who accuses me of being a jerkface. He steals all the dang covers and then rolls his happy, covered up burrito self over until I’m barely hanging onto the edge of the bed and breathes in my face while I teeter, shivering, on the edge of death. And while awake Mancandy is generally a pretty sweet guy, sleeping Mancandy is a complete jerkwad. If I tell him to move over he grunts at me. Sometimes he tells me to hush. Sometimes he will try to smother me. It’s a mystery wrapped in murderous intent.

But he swears I’m the one who steals the covers and he’s an innocent victim. I’m just letting him be wrong. But anywho, all of that to say, last night I spent most of the night chilly and angry. And when he yanked those covers back right before dawn I drifted off with a lot of Italian anger bottled up. And I may or may not have dreamed I shot him in his smug blanket stealing face with a shotgun so that I could tell him what a big jerk he was without interruption. And I may or may not have enjoyed yanking the closet door open where he was innocently dressing for work and smugly announcing I dreamed I shot him in the face and woke up in a good mood before slamming the closet door shut in his face around 5:30 am. And I may have been the only one amused. And I regret nothing.

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