I saw this clip the other day and realized that Jasper is the lion and I am the hippo.
Jasper wanted in my lap but I said No. I was writing, which he wanted to make impossible. Me too apparently because I allowed it. There really is a part of me that finds it super weird to voluntarily share my home with an animal. An animal so sheltered and pampered he doesn’t even know how ridiculous he is. He thinks he’s allowing me to stick around in his house.
To him pens or fingers moving fast is an invitation to be a moron about everything. Ankles are both menacing and delicious. Toes are snacky bed weasels. And any time I sit at my desk he claws his way to my lap and twists his big body to make himself comfortable. For Jasper, everything is about the comfort of Jasper. I end up trying not to get bumped in the nose with his BH business, while he turns in circles, stepping on my keyboard and fucking shit up. He just stood on my desk and gave me weird looks because I was singing. He actually stood with his paw out, twitching and totally ready to smack me silent. I pushed him off the desk, because damn dude. I’m bigger and I pay the rent and I can sing if I want you fluffy razor sharp narcissist.
He gave me dirty looks and jumped to his second favorite spot, wedged behind me, between the chair and my back. So now when I sing, I sing through him. He must like it, he’s purring. Together we are making noises and pressing them into each other. Even for the 20% of time he’s not intentionally being an asshole, he’s still kind of an asshole. How is it so compelling to care for a biting creature with no sense of gratitude or clue what happens outside of this house? His only responsibility is to sass around his tiny universe, slapping the Christmas tree, washing his face, napping on my head, eating, licking the nip spot on the carpet, dragging his ragged stuffed bunny up to my bed, jumping at light spots on the wall and shitting in or near a box in the basement. It’s a pretty easy life. I’m pretty sure this fucker never worries about anything.
It’s 2012 and I’m home again. What next plotnick?
To him pens or fingers moving fast is an invitation to be a moron about everything. Ankles are both menacing and delicious. Toes are snacky bed weasels. And any time I sit at my desk he claws his way to my lap and twists his big body to make himself comfortable. For Jasper, everything is about the comfort of Jasper. I end up trying not to get bumped in the nose with his BH business, while he turns in circles, stepping on my keyboard and fucking shit up. He just stood on my desk and gave me weird looks because I was singing. He actually stood with his paw out, twitching and totally ready to smack me silent. I pushed him off the desk, because damn dude. I’m bigger and I pay the rent and I can sing if I want you fluffy razor sharp narcissist.
He gave me dirty looks and jumped to his second favorite spot, wedged behind me, between the chair and my back. So now when I sing, I sing through him. He must like it, he’s purring. Together we are making noises and pressing them into each other. Even for the 20% of time he’s not intentionally being an asshole, he’s still kind of an asshole. How is it so compelling to care for a biting creature with no sense of gratitude or clue what happens outside of this house? His only responsibility is to sass around his tiny universe, slapping the Christmas tree, washing his face, napping on my head, eating, licking the nip spot on the carpet, dragging his ragged stuffed bunny up to my bed, jumping at light spots on the wall and shitting in or near a box in the basement. It’s a pretty easy life. I’m pretty sure this fucker never worries about anything.
It’s 2012 and I’m home again. What next plotnick?
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