I have a cold, and my entire body is weak as a noodle, and that noodle is also a terribly hurty and whiny noodle who needs to be tucked in and given tea and told she is very, very special, because her face looks really old when she's aching and sick, which is depressing, and she's pretty sure the world doesn't like her very much, and this is no time for bucking up, not when there's so much sad-making to be done.
Also, this introvert spent three days straight being an extrovert — seeing old friends, speaking at a conference, hanging out with toddlers who like to jump up and down loudly on giant bubble wrap — and, WOW, I am some hothouse flower of an introvert or something, because I am right at this moment working on my floorplans for my own remote, underground bunker. Anyone with communication skills more complex than my cats' set of meows and occasional pawing is not allowed.
I couldn't figure out what smelled like cat urine on this bus, but it seemed to be right near me, so I sniffed my way around the couple of seats I've commandeered — I moved from my purse to my coat to a diet Coke bottle, all which came up smelling pretty average for themselves — and then I decided to pull the paper cheese biscuit bag out of my garbage and check it out, even though that would be ridiculous, right? Because I had just bought that biscuit not 20 minutes before, and I would have noticed it, right? Well, apparently not, because the cheese biscuit bag wreaked of cat urine. Now all I can think about is how that cheese biscuit I ate was really a cheese and cat urine biscuit, and it's inside me right now. INSIDE ME.
Would I like a little feline urine with my biscuit? Don't mind if I do. If it's not glowing in the dark, I'm not having it! Down with ammonia-poor diets!