On Having a Cat

Do you have a cat? I do. Her name is Chloé. She's four months old. Every morning, she likes to wake up at the crack of dawn. I don't. I hate mornings. So she wakes up, and she runs. She runs back and forth, across my face, over my ass, across my head, taking no care as to what she's stepping on. It hurts when she steps on my boobs.

I'm a beauty editor for a teen magazine, so I have like 30 pots of eyeshadow lined up on my dresser. I like makeup. Every morning when I finally do get up, there are 30 pots of eyeshadow strewn across my 300-square-foot apartment. I pick them back up, line them up on my dresser. I do this every morning. Then I take a shower. Chloé sits on the floor, waiting to lick my toes when I step out of my claw-foot tub. I think it's weird. She likes it.

On this particular morning, I went to my dresser to apply my makeup, like I always do. Chloé just lays there on the dresser, like she always does, with her fake sleepy eyes, waiting for a prime opportunity to make my morning routine a living hell. I grabbed my navy blue loose-powder eyeshadow that I never wear, but on this day, I was wearing a navy blue dress. And Jilian taught me in the 11th grade that it's a good idea to match your makeup to your outfit.

Chloé pretended to be sleeping. I knew better, but I did it anyway. I put the eyeshadow down, lid off, and quickly applied it. BIG mistake. I'm swiping the shadow close to my lash line, like a liner (I learned this in Glamour), when I hear a THUNK. I spot the paw in mid-air. FUCK. All over my white floor rug! Agh. Wet hair, half-done makeup, 4 minutes to catch the bus. I toss a towel over the blue mess, curse the furry asshole, and go to work.

PS On the way to work, a crazy homeless man called me a cracker. I looked back at him to ensure he was talking to me. He was.