We Need To Talk

Please, have a seat.

My mittens, a few months ago I realized something horrifying: my lil' kitty liver had expended all of its bile. I had nary a drop of magical brown hatred nectar left.

Where had it gone? What had happened to me? I felt as if I was chasing that infernal red dot around the living room. Endlessly clapping my paws over it, trapping it on the floor. Only to have my scarlet tormentor slip away and dance, laser-like, just out of reach.

Yawning, I looked in my inbox. Another letter from Tatarstan:

From: Yuliya [EMAIL OMITTED]
Date: Sep 21, 2006 8:31 AM
To: Geoffrey Chocolate [EMAIL OMITTED]
Subject: Hi

Hello my dear. I very for a long time did not receive from you the
letter. Lovely I very strongly miss on you. Lovely you can will tell
to me where you were gone. Why you write nothing to me? I very
strongly miss on you. Under your letters. I ask you to write to me. I
love you. I wait from you the letter. bay.

I yawned again. I was bored with my Tatarstani faux-wife. I didn't feel like explaining the historical significance of the Little Belt Incident to you. And I didn't have the energy to scour the globe for further arch-nemesi.

This morose feeling consumed me, and I embraced it. I closed my kitty browser, and retired to my woven kitty basket. And there I stayed. Lying prostrate. Gorging myself on catnip. Lamenting my own crapulence. Hating my exhaustion.

Over the next few months, my fur became unkempt. My claws became dull. And still, my bile ducts were arid. I had hit rock bottom, and I felt lost.

It was then, in my darkest kitty hour, that it hit me.

It's all YOUR fault.

That's right. You.

My bile was gone because I had wasted it all on this blog! Explaining things that you should already understand! Expending my energy on people that will never stroke my purrfect fur! You, my mittens, are worse than the scarlet tormentor, because you're not even really here. At least that red bastard has the testicular fortitude to show up in my living room!

My greatest enemy was not Lorenzo Lamas, or Thomas Kinkade, or even lowly Delaware. No!

It was you.

You, who force me to elucidate the inner workings of modern life. You who beg, Oliver Twist-like, for belly laughs at the expense of cretinous people and/or states. You who probably would move to Delaware at the drop of a hat, fill your walls with cheesy paintings of lighthouses, and curl up on the couch to watch Lorenzo Lamas movies.

It's all your fault.

Therefore, I declare you, the loyal readers, my arch nemesis!

Your punishment?

More Chocolate Mittens.