Now I'm just being catty.

So, as it turns out, all it took for the nausea to subside was to sit down at my computer and complain for ten minutes. I should have figured that catharsis would come easy, especially since caring about the lurking behavior of the person in question requires a level of energy that I just can't sustain... which is to say, I do not care. Not really. Even if I did entertain the brief urge to write a really unpleasant finger-pointing diatribe in which I exact my revenge and render the details of the whole sordid mess instantly and eternally findable by anyone with a working internet connection by repeatedly using the offender's full name.

That'll just be my private cackle for a rainy day. Or my ace in the hole. If you get my meaning.

But anyway, enough dwelling, because there are more important things going on here.


If you've been following my spastic posting on Tumblr, you may have noticed that a cat seemed suddenly to have appeared in my apartment, where there was no cat before.

Magic cat! Yes! Our apartment is now be-catted, but more importantly, my existence has been re-catted. Vivian Leigh, who long-time readers might remember from my early days of blogging, is back in the fold. And while she's been here for a couple months now, I haven't written about it, because it's taken this long for my rage over the situation to subside to the point where I can actually talk about it without turning into a heaving She-Hulk and busting out of the house -- and out of my underpants -- on a frothing quest for vengeance against those who sought to wrong my cat.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Pausing for a quick confirmation that my underthings are intact and I don't have any renegade veins popping out of my biceps...

Yeah, okay. We're good.

Vivian had been re-homed back when Brad and I moved in together, after we reluctantly concluded that she and the dog could not occupy the same space without tearing each other's faces off. (This is mostly the dog's fault. Okay, completely the dog's fault. And it's totally unfair that the sins of the golden retriever shall be visited upon the cat.) Shortly before we signed the lease, on my 25th birthday, my parents came down to the city for dinner -- and when they left, they took Vivian with them.

At which point I spent most of the evening of my 25th birthday crying uncontrollably, occasionally pausing between sobs to wail that I had abandoned Vivian Leigh and what if she was all alone and wondering why she didn't have a home anymore OH MY GOD. This went on for hours. (Our neighbors likely thought that I was having a seriously over-the-top reaction to Gone With the Wind.)

Of course, within a few weeks things worked out pretty well: Viv found a new home with a family friend, and I even got to see her occasionally when I went to visit my parents. And for three years, all was good, the knowledge that my cat was happy and well cared-for draping itself like a soft blanket of eternal comfort over my lingering guilt at having given her up.

And then, a couple months ago, a tiny hole appeared in the blanket -- in the form of the news that the family housing Viv needed to find a new home for her. Thinking I might be able to help, I asked to be kept in the loop...

...only to have the blanket rudely ripped off and shredded into tiny bits by knife-wielding samurai when my mother called a week later and told me she'd happened to run into a member of said family at the grocery store, and the following conversation had ensued.

Mom: Oh, have you found a home for Vivian?
Worst Person Who Ever Lived: We asked a couple people, but nobody wanted her... so we're putting her to sleep tomorrow.

Um, what? Let's pause here and heat up a snack, shall we? I'm thinking I'll have a nice big bowl of WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE.

Because really, you guys, I know it was great of this family to take my cat when I couldn't keep her... but she's still.
My.
CAT.

And common courtesy dictates that you do not kill another person's cat without at least checking to see whether that person might want the goddamn cat back.

MOTHERFUCKING GEEEEEEEZ.


A lot of screaming and a couple hundred miles later, Vivian was safely removed from the home of the people who wanted to murder her and back where she belonged.

Which, just in case I haven't been totally clear, is with people who don't want to fucking murder her.

This haughty bitch doesn't have the faintest idea how close she came to eating her last bowl of Friskies.