“Jenny” was a huge dork who went home every weekend and had a small desktop zen garden. I blasted Ben Harper, dyed my hair purple, and snuck beer into my mini fridge that my friends at nearby Wake Forest had provided for me. I raked the sand in her zen garden into what I hoped were disruptive patterns in her absence and blamed it on our neighbor, who we both couldn’t stand but was always stopping by. It was during this time I developed the habit of talking out loud to inanimate objects, as I had the room to myself 98% of the time.
Oh, Papa John’s Pizza with ham and pineapple, you are so delicious.
Screw you, printer! Don’t you know I have a paper due in 45 minutes?!?
When I left Salem College and moved to Wilmington, waiting tables didn’t help. I cursed my pens for exploding in my apron, gave the tea urns the finger when they overflowed, and begged my car to start for me in the morning. Mop bucket! How about not tipping over and drenching my shoes for once?
All bets were off, however when I got Hemo. She is the talking-est cat I know. She’ll have a full on conversation.
Me: Hey Hemo, did you have a good day?
Me: How about some dinner?
Me: There you go.
Hemo: Fuck you.