Lilly is yelling at me, "you know damn well you shouldn't start pouring that Clear Fire Water after 11," she mews. "You gotta work tomorrow, and, besides, I'm ready to go to bed. Now come on!"
Pertney just looks down from his basket disapprovingly. Paw pointed at the clock as, funny enough, Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb starts playing at this exact moment on Launchcast. The shitty Vodka Gimlet I've made burns slightly as it goes down, yet I'd love to pour another. I've got a full tray of Ice Cubes and am not afraid to use it.
Lilly struts by, shaking her head. I vacuumed the rugs, but forgot to clean her litterbox: I'm a horrible daddy. I'm the Mrs. Dorothy Parker eating raw bacon, drunk, and she is Woodrow piddling on the floor (not really, Lilly never goes Number One or Two on the floor, she's a good kitty...just the occasional self-induced vomit once every 3 years). She's mad and tired, and just wants call it a day and sleep.
"Do you plan to type on that thing all night, Mac? Come to freakin' bed!" Hair slightly raised, she heads toward the bedroom.
"In a minute, dear, in a minute." The Ice Cubes haven't completely melted, and there's a good song on. "Just one more minute."
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