He’s a beautiful, if hellishly-behaved, little creature. He somehow managed to break off a bunch of his whiskers a while ago but they are starting to grow back.
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As I was ruefully gazing out over the lush, unkempt tangle of my backyard this morning, wondering how one broke, stove-up middle-aged woman is supposed to keep up with yardwork when it rains 2 inches a day for a month, my ruminations turned to a bit of recent theorizing of a certain disgraced (but of course completely innocent) ex-congressnutria, Tom DeLay.
It occurred to me, extrapolating from his dickery blathering about murdered fetuses denied their rightful lives as menial laborers, that had I set myself to the task of conceiving and birthing the several dozen children my body was capable of, had I done that (instead of being a childless godless lesbian flushing all my viable eggs down the toilet for years), well, I wouldn’t be needing help keeping my damned grass mowed, now would I?
Think about it.