books, bitemarks, and that moment when you realize your roommate is a socialist.
I was bitten last night. Through two layers of clothing, one of those layers being the sleeve of my awesome leather bomber jacket.
Nothing prompted this attack. I was just standing there minding my own business*, when a pair of chompers bit down on my forearm. A bruise came up immediately. Yes, I took off my awesome leather bomber jacket to make sure that I wasn’t bleeding. It hurt THAT bloody bad. I was not bleeding, and therefore probably can’t press charges.
This morning, however, I awoke to find that the bruise is more of a pinkish color and is a nice oval shape on my forearm, not unlike ringworm. At least I think that’s how ringworm looks and I am not about to Google image that shit to confirm. Doing Google image searches of medical things always ends up with me wanting to throw up and take a Lysol bath.
And I guess I should tell you who bit me. If you think it was Bitch Cat (the pet name I use for Brian’s cat, Fenix, who I did not kiss the other night; that was all him; Brian is a liar and a Socialist), you would be wrong. I mean, yes, that little bastard did bite me yesterday. And I’m pretty sure he learned it from his owner because it was definitely Brian that bit the living hell out of my arm last night. Then, when we got back to the apartment, he threw a rug over my head and stole books that I had packed up to donate to Goodwill. So, essentially, he robbed Goodwill. Drunk. At 2:30 in the morning.
I was not amused by these developments.
Then, to make up for all this ruckus he caused and blood he had almost drawn, he read The Giving Tree to me as a bedtime story. And then stole the book for his own library.
*That may not be true. I might have been freaking Brian out by talking about feet on his face, but I was the only one around sober enough to properly remember the events that unfolded last night. Suck it, alcoholics.
