Cait Interrupted

Hi friends,

Alas, where do I even begin…

Monday I was admitted into emergency. Now, in my mind absolutely no real emergency whatsoever. I say this because, for the last two days I was just indifferent. I felt empty, I felt like any feeling I ever felt was gone and that for the remainder of my so-called life I would always feel just this…just…desolate. Cait’s very own wasteland. A place that used to be bumping full of energy and smiles and happy-go-lucky type shit. Now it’s just nothing. An abandoned amusement park, no longer amusing.786e44a15f57dded1b6359cd0e6cfd32

This year has been quite the rollercoaster to say the least and fuck do I ever hate using that metaphor, but it is so true. Up and down, then stalls, then up and down, then some bitch loses her phone because she’s a fucking idiot for trying to take a selfie with a phone……UGH!!!!!!!!!!! This ride isn’t fun anymore.

I called my mom on Monday. I was sad. I often call mom when I am sad. I don’t mean too, and I hate to have her feel helpless because she isn’t here, but there are only few people I feel semi-okay/butnotreally/butitstheclosestIwillgettofeelingcomfortablewithsomeone.

If mom is busy, I call the ex. Now, before you guys go to any conclusions let me explain something to you. My ex and I have been broken up for two years now. In the beginning I would do my best not to call him in these moments, simply because I didn’t want him to feel used. I didn’t want him to feel like I only called him because for 8 years we were together and it was routine, it was comfort. However, he knows me. He knows I’m incredibly stubborn, he knows I hate feet, he knows the scars on my body (inside and out), he knows about my secret obsession with nutcrackers (shhhhh it’s a secret!). He just knows me. He perhaps, is my closest confidant.

On Monday, after being on the phone with my mom, I called the ex. We decided it was time to take me in. Where folks? TO THE LOONY BIN OF COURSE! Kidding! I get I’m crazy, but I am not quite girl interrupted yet. Hospital it is.

On the way to there, I was thinking two things: 1) This isn’t a real emergency? 2) So craving a Happy Meal…

We get there and it isn’t busy one bit. Thank gawd too. I would hate to have someone with a machete in their head or someone birthing a goat have to wait on me just because I am having a sad, sad day.

I was shocked. And I don’t know why I was so shocked, but when I got there everyone was so comforting. The nurses seem to genuinely care about my well being. They didn’t want me to leave, they didn’t want me to feel sadness anymore, they truly wanted to help me. So much in fact they bumped me up before a sick baby. Sorry sick baby, but Cait’s a baby too….

They brought me in to see a psychoanalyst. I forget her name, but she was quite lovely. They also brought in a general physician.I was broken friends. I couldn’t stop feeling sad, I couldn’t stop crying. How did I let it get to this point? ME! Cait the mother fucking great, the toughest cookie in town was crumbling.

I talked to ….lets call her Miss Lovely (psychoanalyst). She truly was lovely. She seemed to have compassion for me, she wanted to understand, she genuinely was listening to all my words and ramblings. She asked me questions, upon questions, but for once I didn’t mind. She asked me about my drug use, I was honest. About my diet, I was honest, about any past or present relationships and in that I tried not to share. I tried not to be honest, but in the end she knew the whole story.

Miss Lovely, then talked to the ex. Since he knows me best, sometimes I think better than I know myself. They both came in a short time later.

I will now be going to an outpatient treatment center. Just to have someone to talk to once 3a51a-depressiontwo8-2in awhile. Someone who can hopefully help me sort out my shit. Someone who is either willing or at least paid to listen to my stories (and I got lots of them stories).

It was funny, on the drive home, the ex turn towards me and… Miss Lovely was so fuck foxing, I should got her number….ugh!!!!! BOYS!!! We had a laughed. He dropped me off, helped cleaned my place a bit, tucked both Bear and I into bed and then it was Tuesday. A new day, still a sad one, but then it’ll be Wednesday, then Thursday, and if it’s true what They say (who ever They are), every day gets better. And I’ve finally taken steps to get better myself.

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The Big H

Seems like the last few months my days start incredibly early. Most of the time it is before my 7 morning alarms go off, but I don’t mind. One morning however, it was not so wonderful to wake up. Not only was I up and not so enthusiastically at’em, but 4:30 is a little too early for me. So body, I’m not a farmer, fuck off.

The last couple weeks or so I have been having stomach and chest pains. It legit feels like a leprechaun jigging on my chest. So, Not, Cool. So alas, this pain never fully goes away, instead it’s been a constant. Straight up fucking annoying. Some days it is almost unbearable. Now, I am what I call a….tough cookie. But ouch, man. Seriously.

I am quite stubborn. That’s a fact. I strongly dislike going to hospitals or clinics in every way. The smell, the sounds, butt fuck everything. Most people think of hospitals as a place for healing. To me, its sickness and death. I will refuse and refuse to go. I could have a harmonica shoved up my asshole, and I still would refuse to go. Most likely, I would call up all the Plebians who owe me favours and tell them to finger my harmonica. I would rather lick butter off a prostitutes dirty ass butt crack than go see a doctor. HELL! One of the last times I saw a doctor they couldn’t find my hymen.  MY GOD DAMN FUCKING HYMEN. The doctor thought it was playing peek-a-boo…MY HYMEN PEOPLE!  HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY THIS. For fuck sakes, fuck hospitals and fuck doctors…..fuck.

Okay, moving on…

One of my closest friends advised me over the last few weeks to go see a doctor. Come on Cait, what is the worst that could happen? Um thanks closest friend, let me tell you what could happen.

  1. A shit ton, fool!
  2. A SHIT TON, FOOL!

I simply refuse to go. Caitlin, says no, closet friend, Caitlin says no.

The chest and stomach pain was constant and consistent. I was dizzy, I was drowsy, either I was puking or my ass was puking. Now, I know what you are thinking. This bitch is knocked up. Sorry folks, hate to break it to ya, but unless my fingers are shooting spermies I am as un’-pregnant as humanly possible. If I was preggerz, meet Jesus Junior, the Second Cumming of Christ.

Almost forgot to mention, I am on meds too, but ya’ll know that so…. Yeah, the obvious side effects aside from cracking myself up and being awesome, I get constipated, faint, can’t think straight, I feel like a pansey, and I have the occassional slurrrrrr-rrrr-rring of words. I’m telling you, if they were casting Judy Garland’s BioPic I would knock that shit out of the park.

So all these forces seem to be building up inside of me. That one morning I was sweaty, the world was spinning, I couldn’t breathe, I’m telling you folks, I was one symptom away from seeing a baby crawling on the ceiling. I am alone. Who do you call when you are alone? No one is home. I got my cat plotting my death already, and my dog is licking his balls in the corner.

11745834_10100508642189933_6844818290448706980_n{SIDE NOTE: My boy Barrie is such a mythical Saint Bernard This cuddly beast has no idea what is going. Saint Bernard’s are supposed to be heroes. SAVE ME, BARRIE ST. BERNARD, SAVE ME! Granted, they are known for saving people from avalanches, the alps and people with colds. So I will let it slide, my boy Barrie. I mean the fact he was sitting in the backyard the other day trying to catch the wind with his mouth…whelp! It says it all.}

Okay, back to being alone. Who the hell am I going to call at this ungodly hour? I certainly do not want to call the parental units, not only would it worry them, but them being on the other side of the country is in all essence, useless. Sorry mom, sorry dad. I also thought, and this was a rather quick poke of a thought, to call some of my friends. However, the majority of them either don’t drive or do not have a vehicle to drive. Plus, the last thing a friend wants to hear is, can you please walk me to the hospital? So friends, maybe, you could get your license or a car  and then I could call you, and you could be like a ‘real’ friend…..just saying…

So looking at my phone, I realize I really only have one option. Call the ex. Fuck my life, this is so not ideal. SO. NOT. IDEAL. I call him, no answer. THANKGOD! Not meant to be. I understand, no one wants to pick up the phone this early in the morning, let alone knowing it is from your ex. It’s fine really, It’s a sign. C’mon Cait, you are a big girl now. Definitely not forking up 80$ for an ambulance, so lets drive. Smart thinking, I know! I went to university where all the smart thinkers come from. I put on my jacket, can’t forget pants, grab my Nikes, dish out my Id’s, snatch up the keys and Oh, I can’t forget my driving gloves! KIDDING! Driving gloves are for pussies, and for people who duel. EN GAURD!

So at some point between my front door and my beloved car, Robin I passed out. No joke. I woke up to rain and wind and what I am sure was once a slug smeared on my cheek. MMMkkay… maybe driving is out of the question.

Somehow I find myself crawling my way back up the stairs, baby steps, Cait, baby steps. I can hear my phone. Its ringing. Someone can save me! I increase speed, which really isn’t fast at all at this point. I’m racing to my phone, I reach the top, only to realize my phone was in my pocket the entire time. Seems legit.

Who is it? The ex. I pick up and was doing my best to play it all cool. I went to five years of acting school for this moment, FAIL! I caved. Oddly enough he was on his way with little Plum dog for the pups to play. So….

FLASH FORWARD TO BURNABY GENERAL HOSPITAL.

No line up, practically no hospital personnel either. I’m in a room and on a bed within one hour. The ex heads back to my place to keep an eye on the pups. It was for the best, he seemed agitated and annoyed at my conundrum. I’m sure driving an ex anywhere is on no one’s To Do List. Part of me wanted him to stay, especially since I have driven him to the hospital more times than I could count, but I needed to be alone. I had to do this on my own. We are not boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. We are just friends and that’s okay.

So I am in Room 1. FYI not a real room. Just a bed surrounded by curtains. There was a gentleman on one side of me in Room 2. He sounded like quite the comedian. He was cracking wise with the nurses, telling them stories that ranged from a one-legged prostitute he fell in love with in Bali to tea-bagging a donkey. Come to think of it, not much of a gentleman. Oh and he was in the hospital for….get this… full on corkscrew lodged in his head. Yup, 8 stitches later and a bandage that somewhat resembled a yamaka. L’Chaim.

Now, these hospital gowns, don’t even get me started. They are frail, not flattering and seriously, you can never have enough coverage, (which reminds me I need to switch my life insurance.)

11904718_10100532930141683_8754819215513386869_nSo anyways in my barely there hospital gown, nurse comes in to take my blood. She even says it in a creepy Transylvanian way which she thought was hilarious. I‘ve come to take vyer bloooood! I thought it was nonsense. I even told her to go back and re-enter like a real person. She did, such a trooperSo she grabs my left arm and can’t seem to find my vein. Stabs me anyways. MOTHER FUCKING OUCH! Painful! Incredibly so. Seeing my discomfort, she pulls out the needle, lets my blood drip on my beautiful hospital gown and proceeds to take blood from my other arm. I should have let the crazy bitch play Dracula. Be good to my right arm lady. It’s all I got until I find myself a man. She places cotton balls on my arms, both sore, my stomach is in pain, I can’t breathe, my veins are throbbing and all of a sudden…..a lonely tear drop falls from my eye. Then 2, then 3, and then the water works. I hate crying, I cry even more just knowing I can be an ugly crier. S.A.D.N.E.S.S.

Anyways, Room 2’s mom comes and picks him up. Enter, Room 2’s new patient, crazy lady. Why she be crazy? Let me tell you. I am there in my little ‘room’ crying. She starts crying. I get louder, she gets louder, I get even more boastful and operatic and she hulks it out even more. We sound like a whales, just a couple of swells I tell ya. MAAAOOOO WAHHHHH MAHHHHaaaa….Ahem, I am competitive by nature, its a gift, there is no denying it. So I use my years of voice training to …WAHAHAHAOOO BAOOOOOOMEOOOW MEOW…

This beautiful moment friends, goes on for quite some time. At some point my crying turns into uncontrollable laughter. The sad, sad story we were sharing turned into the funniest fucking moment of my life. AND THIS IS BEFORE THE DRUGS PEOPLE! She however, was not amused. She went silent. Later, Room 2 crazy lady. it was a pleasure. HAHAHA.

So non-bloodthirsty nurse comes in and mixes me up a frothy cocktail of grossness. It was straight up, gnarly. I sucked it back, channeling my college drinking days and I CAN’T FEEL MY MOUTH. Yes, she forgot to mention the numbness in my mouth that would happen with this shot. Clearly, she didn’t enjoy my whale talk as much as I did.

Follow blue line to x-rays. Follow blue line back to bed.

Pain, still so much pain. If I can’t handle this, child birth is not an option. I will order my children on eBay. Props to all you momma’s shitting out kids. Props Mom,

So the ex calls. I can’t talk. I’m trying to, but I sound like Leo DiCaprio from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. FUCK. MY. LIFE. Or in my case, FEEEOWKK MWAI LIFEEE….Like actually.Where are the actually drugs! This numbness, the mouth shit does fuck all.

I am such a baby. There was a man with a corkscrew stuck in his head, IN HIS HEAD! The fucking thing didn’t even phase him. Whereas me, a 27 year old, single, semi-independent woman Is whining over a misunderstood tummy ache. WHAHHHH!!!

Doc comes in, injects me with wait for it…..morphine! And oh my if you haven’t had morphine, I encourage you to have a go. You haven’t lived until a doctor jabs you in the backside (now I know why hospital gowns don’t close at the back), with a big ass fucking needle. The needle hurts, but the morphine feels like candy. I can’t talk and now I can’t think for myself. Clearly, every man’s dream girl.

So at some point, sprawled out on the bed, face down in a star fish position, gown back flaps wide open the doc revisits me. Lets me know I’ve been out about half hour or so. He gives me the down low. (The Doctor’s down low may or may not be featured in a future blog. After all, I should probably keep some things a mystery from you folks.)  So yada yada, yadada….basically in one ear out the other. The Doc will have to invoice me, seriously I’m high on all your hospital candies, drooling and not even noticing that I am drooling and this is the moment you decide to tell me what is wrong with me. SO. NOT. IDEAL.

What a day it was folks. It will hopefully be a long time before I decide to visit the big H again. Hopefully, my friends will have cars, and I won’t need to call the ex. Or I could not be cheap and take an ambulance ride. BUT WHATEVER….Now, excuse me while, I instagram the hole in my back from the biggest needle ever.

The Cherub Nazi: True Story

Bright and early, up before the alarm, puppies fast asleep. Looking at these little beasties I quite simply couldn’t be happier. Put on the kettle, take my daily cocktail of meds, have my morning shit in the water closet. Puppies still asleep, so I grab my tea, snuggle back into bed, put on my non-prescription reading glasses (side note: at times like this I wish I had a monocle). 

My novella of choice: Fifty Shades of Grey.

NOW HOLD UP! Before you all get up in my grill let me explain.

This book is shit, pure and sparkly shit. Monkeys could write better than this. It’s borderline Hooked on Phonix for first graders. This book is such as travesty that I will most likely use the pages to wipe my ass when I am done lowering my IQ. I’ll save money on TP and then I can actually afford a real book. (Another side note: For those of you who are aware of my strong dislike for Fable 3, as shitty as this book is I would rather read this book over and over again, than to hear anyone utter the words ‘Fable 3’. I would rather suck someones severe hammertoe than play Fable 3)

So the book is shit, but oddly enjoyable. And yes I am quite aware that the further I read I am just a stop closer to the short bus.

Anyways, a few shades in and the doorbell rings. Ahah, suspense I love suspense. Now, why the fuck would my doorbell be ringing so god damn early in the morning? Hell, I didn’t even know I had a doorbell. But back to the why? IN GODS NAME WHY?  First off, I have no friends, second the bills are paid I swear, and thirdly if its the lady I smacked with her own flipflop…I am truly, truly sorry and would kindly ask for you to return under the bridge from which you came.

So Ativan kicking in, along with Xanax, Paxil and a few other TicTacs I cannot pronounce….Why am I melting…what is happening…Cait, do no pass go…

I put down Fifty Shades of Shit, get out of bed, think about putting on pants and brushing my hair, but don’t. Sometimes thinking is enough. Pfff, fuck it. You come here, to the place where I dwell, you ring my door bell, which I didn’t even know that I had, I will not furbish myself for you.

I creep down the stairs, bell rings again… Grab one of my shoes, just in case, take a deep breath and swing the door wide open. I mean I full on Bruce Lee’d this door down.

Is it an Angel? Oh gawd, Heavens Gate has found me. These drugs are really playing games with me. It is a boy, young, pre-adolescent, blonde hair, blue eyes, I really can’t decide if he’s a Nazi or a cherub…then I clue in…. Jehovah’s Witness….fuck me….I should have kept going to the church and if they allowed me to bring in my own bottle of wine this little Cherub Nazi would not be at my door, ring-a-ling-linging.

So since I don’t want JW going back home and whipping himself because I’m in my skivvies, I close the door so he can only see my one eyeball. I so wish I had a monocle, I would look so much more sophisticated in instances like this.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Ma’am.

Me: Oh gawd, don’t call me Ma’am. Ma’am is what you call the little old lady down the street who still has milk delivered.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Mrs…

Me: Nope, Not a hope in hell little boy. Yes, I swore on the Little Cherub Mother Fucker.

Cherub Nazi Boy: May I have you name?

Me: Sorry kid, the last thing I need is Chris Hansen interrogating me because I little munchkin is on my doorstep.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Miss?

Me: This little shit is persistentSure, Miss.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Can I tell you about your Father?

Me: So hold up, who the hell does this kid think he is? This kid wants to tell me who my father is. His peter guaranteed is no bigger than my thumb, fuck my balls are probably bigger and he has the nerve to want tell me who my father is. Sorry kid, me and my father go way back

Cherub Nazi Boy: Miss, God is your father.

Me: That is news to me. Seriously, kid I think you got the wrong daddy. My dad is tall, dark and native. Legit FBI (Fucking Big Indian) to the extreme.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Uh ma’am.

Me: Not this again. Listen kid, I ‘respect’ what you are doing. You got heart , clearly no soul and little do you know ‘Your Father’ is pimping you out, you little prost-i-tot, you. Go back to your flock of Little Nazi Cherubs, I am not flocking your way.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Uh, Miss…

Me: Fuck, I didn’t mean to swear or hurt your feelings. I’m just not interested. Your Papa I simply don’t preach.

Cherub Nazi Boy: Miss…may I have your number?

NOPE! NOPE! A BIG HELL NO! First this little shit goes from wanting to tell me who my daddy is, to asking for me number. This kid has serious mommy issues.

I close the door. I need another TicTac cocktail to process what just happened.

This folks, is a first for me. Kids scare me. The things that gets ingrained into their little brains scares me and apparently the meds I am on are starting to scare me too. I should probably call Dad.

Anyways long story short……..THE END.

Pollinated by the Wind.

GUESS WHAT FUCKERS!!! I’M BACK!!! Now isn’t that just the sweetest way to say HELLO after almost a year or so hiatus. Truth be told, I have been blogging, documenting life’s little tidbits in my trusty little handwritten book, and just be too god damn lazy to type them up. But don’t worry dear friends. Time will come when these lil doodle poetics will be placed on the cyber net for your viewing pleasure only.

Anywho, I thought I’d blog ya’lls with a lil update on me. (So not narcissistic at all)….

So since I’m a 27 year old biddy, and excellent at writing lists, that is what I shall do.

  • My last blog was about me getting a baby. And no, I’m not talking about shitting out a kid or buying Mongolian toddlers from the black market. I got myself, a dog, name Barrie St.Bernard. And yes, that is his full name.
  • My cat Olive, only enjoys Barrie St.Bernard for the shear fact he eats her shit. Other than that, he is the Bane of her existence. (And yes, Bane as in Batman.)
  • I’ve up and left my last humble abode. And graduated from the Upper Ghetto of New West to Chateau El’La Shanty Town, Burnaby.
  • My 6th anniversary with my man was forgotten. La Fin.ac48f32f3daca5a9f9eb4d8686938ff2
  • I looked in the mirror one day and realized how time flies by. Also discovered a new freckle. I named it Dotty
  • Did spring cleaning in December and liked it. Also found some cheese string in a pair of denims I haven’t worn since circa,08;
  • Became addicted to Red Bull after a gaming marathon which resulted in me stroking out after I lost 142 of my saves.
  • My girlfriend passed away this summer. Incredibly heart-breaking.
  • Finally, a few of the movies I worked on are out. Check out, Step Up 5, Big Eyes, If I Stay, Night of The Museum 3 and more. I will say this my endeavors of becoming an actor have resulted in me being ‘arm-candy’, a statue, ‘girl with tray’, serving wench, ‘sad girl 2’, ‘a hungry I’, ‘wedding guest’ , ‘hand double’ etc.…My resume must be looking pretty tasty right about now.
  • Did the ALS ice bucket challenge and actually donated 100$.
  • I still wear a fanny pack.
  • My daily trips to the dog park without a dog park are no more! I am now a real person and have Barrie to venture to the parks too. Perfect place to smoke my medicine, and unwind while Barrie roams free in a fenced off area, a place that resembles a concentration camp. Anne Frank would be proud…How…ideal…
  • Convinced myself that rolling my eyes is burning calories. FYI it is.
  • I now practice drinking coffee black/decaf/with a straw/peppermint gum. Why I’m practicing? Fuck if I know.
  • Held my fart in once for a whole day, just so I could dutch-oven my man, after he forgot to take out the trash. (Future reference for anyone who has the pleasure of living with me. TAKE OUT THE TRASH).
  • New Love: Matthew Goode.
  • I realized:…..even-god-wont-save-you-worst-bad-childrens-book-vintage
  • Finally retired my Peter Rabbit stuffy to the closet. Don’t worry I’m sure he will come out of the closet again. If Anne Heche can, Peter Rabbit can too.
  • I now only make status updates on Facebook while sitting on the toilet.
  • Decided to take up cooking, by buying a microwave. Only to return it, when I realized I don’t enjoy cooking.
  • Attempted to hold a quarter in my stink crease. (Still have not found the quarter)
  • Slept in the parking lot of Timmy Ho’s. (Clearly, a high point in my life).
  • Put my car Mia, out to pasture. She’s such a slag.
  • Went home for the holidays to see the fam. So in love with being the crazy auntie from out West.
  • I wrote Dr. Phil a love letter. Also went into great detail about how I feel I’ve been pollinated by the wind. He has yet to respond. Xoxo.
  • All summer I feasted on Mexican food while living in this great city of ours.
  • YOLO, mother fucker, YOLO.

Cat Like Life Coach

Recently, I have been struggling with who to turn to in times of the melodrama in my life. Usually I have a list of people who I go to for certain things in my life. For example, I go to my boyfriend for financial issues (if you know me there is deep, deep irony in that), I go to his boyfriend for relationship trouble, I go to my best friend for everything (boyfriend issues and fitness relapses), I go to my grandma for all complications in life and well, I think you get were I am going with this.

For the past two months, (although I still go to these people in times of need), I have been experimenting with another alternative. You see, I feel as though I am constantly burdening these people when I go to them with my troubles. So I’ve decided to have a life coach (this is my alternative).

Meet Olive. (if you read my previous blogs you’ve met her already).Image To answer you question: YES, it’s just silly and fucking weird to have a cat as a life coach, especially one with anger management issues. But what the fuck do I care, I feed her, I clean her shitter, I brush her, I let her watch me shower, watch me eat, watch me sit on the crapper, I let her sit on my lap during intense gaming sessions, I let her eat my food…basically this kitty owes me.

I believe Olive to be a reflection of myself, and when you can see that reflection in front of you, on another being it can put things into perspective, even if’s a hyper-active-bi-polar cat from the streets.

Olive, like me loves to sleep.  I’m telling you, us ladies pass the fuck out at just the thought of sleeping. Our half hour naps turn into four sessions of floating on clouds with Obi-wan Kenobi. When my alarm goes off for the second, third, fourth time, Olive knows it’s time to stretch her kitty limbs and walk her ass over to me face and wake me up. In fact even when I have terrible nightmares I’m always woken up by Olive sticking her ass in my face (I swear she’s trying to fart).

When I come home from work or anywhere really, she greets me with a big HELLO or WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN!?! She’s got some attitude this one.

ImageWhenever I’m on the computer, usually writing, but playing the occasional WoW or chatting with the parental units on Skype, Olive is right there. Usually, on the printer, on the desk, on my lap or on the computer. It’s cute for the first couple minutes, but it only takes a little bit before who eyes start ripping apart your soul.

She is a little carnivore. I love my meat. This cat eats things bigger than her.  She downs sausage faster than I deep throat……ahem. In short, she is no vegetarian.

When I do my home workouts, she is always there, either doing her cat stretch on my yoga mat or doing cardio laps around the place, bouncing off walls like a cat like thief ninja. HIYAH!

When company comes over, this woman is fierce and territorial. She may be a cat, but she ain’t no pussy. She strongly dislikes everybody that comes into our apartment, including my boyfriend half the time. Almost anything that comes into our apartment that is talking and walking or look like it should be, she is on her guard and lets all those poor bastards know it. I buy her toy mice every week and after she scalps them within a few minutes of me giving it to her, she hurls them off the balcony. Bitch. Even though this part of her aggravates me and annoys the shit out of me, I feel I could learn something from it.

So back to my life coach cat theory. I can talk to Olive and tell her about anything and know she won’t say a fucking word, even in the unlikely chance she is listening it is still nice to vent to her. But yes, I know she doesn’t give a shit.

She watches me and my man rub naughty bits. Yeah, it’s creepy, but hey she ain’t judging and that’s a nice feeling. Sometime when things are getting hot and heavy between me and my man, I can just shoot her a look and she looks at me with approval. In my mind she is saying, You did good kid, real good!

I don’t know how this happens, but somehow anytime I hurt myself, whether it’s dropping a hammer on my foot or being constipated, in those moments of pain and complete discomfort she does something hilarious. She’ll roll out of the closet, or smoke her head on the class window. Once time she got stuck in my man’s skivvies after I started crying after I bang my foot on the corner of the dresser. I literally dribbled in my pants I was laughing so hard. This cat is hilarious. Life coaches should be funny. Laughter is good!

Let me delve in a little bit about Olive’s past. When she was about 3 months old we met. I was on my way to the beach and a gentleman walks on the bus and Olive falls out of his backpack. She looks up at me. I swear she looked just like my old cat Gertie who was a huge obese mammoth of a kitty. (Olive however, not obese). The man who had her said he found her, in an alley way. Apparently, her mother was attempting to kill her. He took her, and put her in his backpack. This man had no money and was looking for some cash for a quick fix. I caved. I couldn’t resist this funny looking cat. So 30$ later, I become the proud owner of Olive (back then her name was 6 pack, but I don’t want to talk about it). This kitty went from riches to rags and that in itself is kind of inspiring. (Gawd, I’m sad..)

She follows me everywhere I go in the apartment. Me and this cat are just that close. I don’t know what I would do without this crazy ass kitty. I love her. Therefore I nominate her as my life coach. Like I said, she fucking owes me. So friends who I usually go to for certain complications and issues in life, if I stop going to you then that I think would be a good thing. However, if I start shitting in the litter box, and licking my flaps with my leg outstretch over my head, help a sister out. It clearly means Olive, is a terrible life coach. But until that moment happens, Ciao my people.

Advice Hardly Given

Today you will be able to feast your eyeballs on my words of wisdom. Countless people and cyber freaks have been asking yours truly for advice about useless shit, that I quite frankly don’t give a damn about. Regardless, I have the answers for you all. Yes, I’m just, that, good. (Dr. Phil, back the fuck up).

Dear Cait, I am still a virgin. What do I do? HELP!

Dear Virgin, Have sex.

Dear Cait, How do I tell my flatmate I’ve had sex everywhere in our apartment? This is including, their room.

Dear Horndog,You have two options here: You can man up and apologize. Or don’t tell them. Keep in mind, jiz stains don’t stay hidden forever.Image


Dear Cait ‘Mistress of the Universe’, How do I tell a woman I don’t like her and to leave me alone forever.

Dear Mama’s Boy, Remember, mother’s are in our lives forever. They brought us into this world and just as well can take us back out. If you however are not referring to your mother, than I have multiple answers for you. 

  • Slap the bitch
  • Ignore her, in fact go to the extent of introducing yourself to her every time you see her
  • Tell her she is cute, but not in a good way.
  • Tell her your entering the brotherhood.
  • Let her know,she can no longer borrow your travelling pants.

If you would like to do this without insulting the bitch, you are out of luck. I don’t do nice.

Dear Cait, I hate my job. I’m going to quit, but not sure how.

Dear Sad Fucker, Pull down your pants and tell your boss to suck it.

Dear Cait, I think I might be gay. How do I know if I am or not?

Dear Pansy, take a trip to Bumfuck Mountain. 

Dear Cait, how can a man wear a dress and still be socially accepted.

Dear Queen, a man can wear a dress and be socially accepted if her has a vagina.

Dear Cait, how drunk is too drunk to fuck?

Dear Drunk, if it talks and walks you are good to go.

Dear Cait, I met this girl who is ‘average’ looking. People make fun of her, but I like her. Should I be with her.

Dear Lovebird, two things: Is she funny? And does she give good head? If the answers are no, fly away.

Dear Cait, At what age do woman finally give in and take it in the bum?

Dear Bum Diddler. the age at which you drug her.

Dear Cait, I am 5 months pregnant, who should I turn to for baby advice?

Dear Preggerz, NOT ME!

Dear Cait, I am my friend is getting married. I have been with my boyfriend for 1 year, how do I get him to purpose.

Dear Hopelessly Devoted, GET PREGNANT! Kidding, kidding…

Dear Cait, my boyfriends birthday is coming up and I don’t know what to get him.

Dear NotAGoodGirlfriend, The fact that you don’t know what to get him probably means you should get him either another girlfriend or a lap dance.

Dear Cait, I’m out of a job and need to make money quick. What can you recommend that does not require me to work the corner?

 Dear Un-working Girl, ever heard of Polenastics?

Dear Cait, my dad wants me to go to a local college, but I want to go to one four hours away. What do I do?

Dear GoingNowhere, tell your father in the most ‘Varsity Blues’esque voice, ‘I don’t want your life’ (James Van Der Beek accent is a must to make it work).

That is it for now my friends! My wisdom has been shared. This advice is so wise that it is simply advice hardly given. Life coach Cait, is on the horizon. Think about it freaks, I could be yours for the low cost of hi-fives and credit card numbers!