Catatonic and a cat tonic
Distinguished on June 22, 2025.
That some people can’t distinguish between “etymology” and “entomology” bugs me in ways I can’t put into words.
Rarely do I find myself at such a loss for words—if I can’t think of the correct ones, incorrect and confusing ones will often do just fine. And with 229B Bouillabaisse Boulevard now being a prime cockroach breeding ground, I also rarely find myself at a loss for bugs.
As an aside: Why does every zipper have that little square hole in the end of its puller? What is it there for? What does it do? I have never seen one without that hole. I have never seen that hole put to good use, either. Some days, wondering about this sends me into a tizzy of rumination and perseveration. (On other days, it just makes me catatonic.)
On Wednesday, I made a cat tonic for Nurdlebutt but she wouldn’t drink it. Not enough tuna—nor nurdles.
There is absolutely no way that A.I. could generate text this brilliant and of so fine a texture. Stop saying that!
On Thursday, I learned my ceiling clock had become infested by clockroaches. They scurried in and out, to and fro, and made ticking-tocking noises as they went about their business of telling time and infesting things.
The Large Hadron Collider was in the news recently. (And the even larger Hard-On Collider was also in the news, but for silly and juvenile reasons.) According to “sources,” they had used the LHC to turn lead into gold. These “sources” acted like this was some kind o’ special. But I knew better: The gnomes tunnelling under my palatial abode turn lead into gold every day. And so, I scoffed. And went back to digging up the gnome gold sprouting in my back yard.
The thunderstorm that rolled in last night sure was a petunia-pelter! It even knocked Nurdlebutt’s socks off. Becasue wasn’t wearing any, so her feet were safe. But her socks were not safe from the sockroaches infesting our sock drawers now.
I murped a little at the nearest zebra (which was later discovered to just be little horse with stripes painted on).
“Go be a cockroach somewhere else!” I shouted at the wainscoting. Becasue turned and peered at me curiously, shrugged, and turned back to creaming her corn. Corn gone wrong—it’s what’s for dinner.
This morning, it was Christmas somewhere. So, someone gave me a present. I wasn’t sure who—but that was neither here nor there: What was here was a cardboard box wrapped in wrapping paper of the most wrappingly festive kind! So, I unwrapped it, opened it, and stared into it. I gasped. I wasn’t sure if the thing within was a pristimuller or a dord-finagler. It could have just been a pair of high-heel sandals for all I knew! But, two things were for sure: My pair of dormfuddies had disintegrated into a fine mist in the meantime. And, there was only one thing that I was sure about: That.