For those that have been reading my blog since the very beginning (you sad weasel), you'd know about Timothy and his tragic death. If not, click the link. In cliff-notes form, I had a white kitten called Timothy (all my cats were named Timothy at the time) and one day I came home from school (7 or 8 years old probably) to find Timothy dead in the dining room, slit from his neck to his gut.
There was a lot of blood. And ants.
The reason I bring it up is because of the dream I had last night. Dream? It was a fucking nightmare. And as with all dreams the longer you wait after the dream the less you remember, but I do remember this:
It was one of my cats. Being skinned alive. With a very large knife.
That kind of shit can really disturb you and ruin your mood for the rest of the day.
I think that's why I was in such a bad mood this morning. I don't like cat killers.
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