FLUFFY COVFEFE

As you know, the weird scramble in my head combines with bloodpressure pills to make my dreams more intense and vivid. Never-the-less, I am convinced that there is a ghost cat in this apartment. I've seen him or her several times now while half-asleep. Ghosts, of course, haunt places where they have unfinished business which obsessed them when they were still living.

Cats are known for obsessions.

Usually it's something comfort related. A warm shaft of sunlight, that rubber band under the bed, or, sometimes that ghost in the corner which you cannot see. Which begs the question whether a foreshadowing of me living here is what the cat saw decades ago. Perhaps she liked the hint of pipe tobacco from my apparition then, like catnip for a thoughtful human.

There's a faint odour somewhat reminiscent of a litter box right in front of the centre of the main bookcase. Might be from books, might not. A faint pong of decomposing leaves.
Near a folder of documents.

Nothing peed there in living memory. Neither I nor my apartment mate absent mindedly took a leak there. I'm fairly certain of that. Yes, she is on the eccentric spectrum, but she is quite fastidious (shan't say anything about my re-washing the forks and sometimes the crockery after she's done the dishes; she doesn't always wear her glasses).

Evenso. Slightly peeish. Odd.


Life is filled with baffling things. Odours. Berserk internet statements. Fluffy appartitions. Cat girls. White folks cuisine from the early atomic age, which combines stuff like canned sweet potato, Vienna sausages, and instant gelatine. Which you combine, place on some lettuce, and garnish with sliced pimento olives.


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