The saga continues with the second of three parts of chapter one. Which might just be the only chapter I post. Also, this is much shorter than the first because the third section is a good deal bigger and I didn’t want to separate it more. Here you go:

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When I got home, tired and displeased at having spent so much of my morning talking to humans, Spuffs was glowering on the couch, watching me from the moment I entered. Spuffs rarely gets visibly angry; no, he shows his discontent via muted disinterest and flat stares.

“I’m sorry, baby!” I exclaimed. He did nothing. “I didn’t want to be there! But I could use this money!” His tailed flicked from side to side, displeasure emanating from his stoic stance.

“No! Stop that! You can’t judge me! I’m doing this for us!” I stormed off to my room in my tiny apartment and turned to face him. He eyed me for one more moment before laying his head down in utter contempt. I slammed the door.

That cat! Who did he think he was? He knows I care about him! When he got sick and kept throwing up all his food and was refusing to drink water, I was the one who made homemade fish stock to keep him hydrated!

One day he’ll realize that I always did what was in his best interest, even if it seems like it’s not for him.

The next few days were more difficult than I care to explain. My job – my boring, lovely job that generally lent me plenty of time to watch Melissa and Joey had been replaced by one that consumed too much of my time. Not only that, I discovered that morning visitors were much more likely to want to talk because they didn’t desire discretion or simply sleep. And there were kids. Many kids.

Now, I do like kids. I do, really. But I also don’t. What most people don’t realize is that kids are just like adults only with fewer inhibitions and (generally) worse communication skills. Men love to look at my chest in a semi-subtle fashion; little boys point and say, “Look at those, mommy! They’re so much bigger than yours!” Yeah, well, your head is too big for your body, kid!

I’d like to have kids, one day. I mean, kids besides Spuffs. I imagine my kids would be much better than most of the other kids I’ve met because my genes are A+ material. I’m smart, and cute in the way that a younger librarian is cute, with my slightly aloof attitude and my androgynous dressing habits. Maybe I should become a librarian…

My goal in life is to have it all, like those girls on Sex and the City (though hopefully before I’m as old as them and also I don’t want to become as drug addled as they seemed to become in the second movie): I want a good career as a hermit-like writer; three kids named Isobel, Gillian, and Colin; a sexy, sexy doctor husband who wears three piece suits but looks like a lumberjack and smells like bacon; and cats. A good number of cats.

What’s a good number of cats? 13?

Getting this raise would be the perfect step forward to achieve my goals. My ideal future is so close to me I can almost pet its soft, lustrous fur. But it might ruin my one functional relationship along the way.

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