Discipline

How do you discipline a cat?

I mean, really.

Spraying water in his face isn’t doing a lot to stop boycat being a jerk to girlcat.

Once, when he was very naughty and made himself at home in my next door neighbour’s house, I didn’t speak to him for an hour. I felt abandoned by him. He was my little loveface, who adored me, and now he had gone to bask in the loveglow of someone else.

“Never enough. I am just never enough for anyone!”

… that’s when I realised I had rather larger mental issues than I had previously suspected. Also when I realised I had completely stopped thinking of them as cats.

I’m not great with discipline. My little brother is ten years younger than me, and very rarely did the word “no” escape my lips when he asked for something. In fact, it seems that whatever he wanted to do, I was there encouraging it.

It isn’t many big sisters who get banned from reading to their younger brother. In hindsight, while it was certainly fun, it may not have been in his best interests for me to read Harry Potter as though I had Tourettes.

At 21 years of age, I can’t see any signs that it has harmed him, but I also can’t stop calling Professor Lockhart “Professor Cockfart”, either.

As for my cats, I think it’s me that needs the discipline.

I need to start remembering that they aren’t human. I don’t, as previously suspected, need to spell words to prevent them getting excited over things they can’t have, nor do I need to sit them down and explain why they’re not allowed to lay in my garden, squashing my newborn sunflower plants.

Most of all, I can probably stop mocking their meows when they’re talking to me after their fights.

The phrase “I don’t care who started it, you don’t bite each other and shove your bums in each other’s faces!” should probably be reserved for human children and the way things are going, Australian politicians.

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Nice things, and why we can’t have them.

Britard woke up wearing last night’s pants, and the sweat of last night’s booze. It had pooled in the folds of her skin while the sun sang her to sleep.

Mornings like that were not so common for her anymore and hers was a sad, angry shame-awakening, for the second weekend in a row.

This one was going to be fairly bad if her first flashback was anything to go by. It was the computer. YouTube. Two friends on the spare bed next to her, one trying to sleep, the other suggesting songs that Britard was going to ignore.
The music was at a terribly loud volume for Morning Suntime but it wasn’t as loud as her voice, concerting its way through the neighbourhood, creating what had to be the world’s worst Human-Rooster Duet.

Groaning at the memory, Britard reached onto the cluttered table beside her bed, her fingers blindly stalking its surface to avoid exposing her sandpaper eyes to the harsh, evil air of sunshiney reality.

The next flashback came courtesy of her fingers’ inability to locate her phone. With a heavier heart than the one she’d been carrying last night, she gritted her teeth, and prepared to face a day of disappointing treasure hunting – a game called “Oh Shit. I did that last night? I did. Shit.”

In an unprecedented turn of events, today’s game was multiplayer, and as a result, Britard took less of a health hit through Guilt Damage than she usually did in this game.

… until she realised that her phone was not the only missing person from her entourage – She had also lost her glasses – a week before attending the ballet with her family for an event called “Combined Birthdays in a City Eight Hours’ Drive Away!”

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Britard”, said Britard, squinting into the distance.

Seven days later, staring through a new pair of glasses, she sat perched in the middle back seat of her parents’ car, twenty minutes into the eight hour trip home.

Her fingertips traversed the floor of the car, in search of her phone.

“This is why we can’t have nice things, Britard”, said her partner, five minutes later, hanging up the call he’d made to her phone. “Your brother will post it back to you tomorrow. Along with your wallet. And your handbag”.

Reason #458973 as to why I am trying not to drink. Also – this if a family warning. Do not read this if we are related. Trust me. You don’t want to know this shit.

Sharing drunken war wounds with Darbiel, the Sunshine Angel, I was reminded of that one time that I scared a man out of my apartment.

It was during Melbourne Whore Week, a week spent with a fellow wordpress blogger who shall remain anonymous unless she chooses to reveal herself, where we were stoned, drunk and/or having sex, the entire time.

It was seriously, the most fun week of my life.

I wish I could say that it was the most debauched, but to be honest, the events of this week are quite tame in comparison to the everyday life I lived when I first lived alone in that beautiful, cold city.

Nevertheless, on this particular occasion, my cohort and I met two men outside a popular eating establishment. We struck up a conversation, and, because I was guilt-ridden and hated myself for drinking, and was terribly, completely lonely, the only way I could alleviate that guilt and loneliness was to coerce others into drinking with me – any time of the day, any day of the week, any person who showed an interest in being an accomplice to my next drunken adventure. And that is how two men we met outside Hungry Jacks ended up naked in my apartment.

Well, one of them ended up naked.

The other one, I chased out of there with a broken wine bottle.

At least, that’s how he saw it.

What really happened was that he and I were standing next to the concrete wall in my bedroom. My wine bottle was empty. I didn’t enjoy that, so I broke it on the wall. I didn’t anger-smash it, I just “naughty bottle!” tapped the base of it against the wall, where it cracked and broke in an awesome crazy-heartbeat shape.

The fact that I was so clearly enjoying the sight of this broken bottle in my hand apparently alarmed this gentleman, who began to back out of my bedroom, saying nothing to his friend.

I looked up and saw him leaving, asked where he was going, and slowly began to follow him. I’d forgotten all about the broken bottle I was holding in my right hand.

It didn’t take long for his walk to turn into a bit of a run, until I was standing on my balcony in a t-shirt and my undies, holding a broken wine bottle and asking a man in unbuttoned jeans why he was running away from me.

“Because you’re holding a broken wine bottle like a crazy lady!” he shouted, as he ran down the stairs.

And that’s when I remembered that I was holding a broken wine bottle like a crazy lady.

I walked back into my apartment, put the bottle in the bin, went back to the bedroom and informed the naked people in there that I had just accidentally scared the other one away with a broken wine bottle.

Thankfully, the other guy was so enamored with my friend, he didn’t care.

Later on that week, we jumped into an already-taken taxi, and kidnapped convinced the passenger in there to not go home as the sun was coming up, but instead join us for our trip to the 24 hour bottle shop on Chapel St, and then to my apartment at Hawksburn station.

For half a day, he’d given us a fake name, because he was scared that we might possibly harm him.

Ha-ha. Those common misunderstandings!
*fake-smile-quiver*