I’m a little too out of sorts for a blog post today, so I asked the gargoyle who lives in my living room to step in for me today. Also? He’s kind of a jerk, but that doesn’t make me love him any less. Also, because I’m totally not one of those kids who cries after being tagged because they enjoyed being chased more, I’ll have a blog post following up to the devious Nicole’s post from today in a day or two. Because she’s right–I do love her enough to follow through with it, even if I’m shaking my fist at her simultaneously. Which is hard to do while typing.
I tire of living indoors with the mortals. While the days of porch side living were often bleak and damp, they immeasurably more peaceful. The sounds of the mortals coupling habits exhaust me, fraying my nerves most severely. With this ext rent of “practice” I would presume to see a third of their kind, but alas no.
My complaints are more importantly directed to the female mortal, the one who suffocated me, or nearly so, when clutched in her grasp as she traded my gloomy living conditions for the lukewarm, bland environment of what I understand to be their living room.
Listening to the female play Gossip Girl endlessly when left alone in the apartment by the male–it weighs on me heavily. Her pretenses of ironic enjoyment fool no one. The intrigue of the wealthy, consequence-free lifestyles portrayed by thee reckless television show sucks her in. The sooner she stops lying to herself the better, because the indecisive romantic triangle Blake Lively’s character finds herself perpetually trapped in is giving me a grainy ulcer that I would be happy to live without.