Eff You Matilda, You Whorey Whore-Cat Who Whores

Matilda, I thought we were freaking friends.

Remember when I first moved to New York? And I was unemployed, and kind of living off of cocktail nuts? And I used to sit in the lobby of the Algonquin hotel and read Dorothy Parker, partly because it reminded me how full of posibilities the city was, and partly because the waiter would give me free peanuts and pretzels with water?

That was where we first met, Matilda. I was a young girl, you were a middle aged cat. You lived in the Algonquin hotel’s lobby, I did not live in the Algonquin’s lobby. It didn’t matter.

Matilda, you saw me like, every day. You rolled around and let me rub your belly. I let you besmirch all my black clothes with your hair. Did I not always say “hello, Matilda” and give you a vigorous pet in the way the tourists from Alabama never would? Matilda, I thought we had formed a bond between feline and female.

I guess not.

Thanks for not inviting me to your 16th birthday party/fashion show, you whore-y whore-cat who whores.

You invited Howard Stern’s wife? I don’t think you even KNOW Howard Stern’s wife (the lovely Beth Ostrosky-Stern). Matilda, I think you need to pause for a moment and ask yourself if this is the cat you want to be. I think you should look at the pictures below (the pictures from Gothamist) and say to yourself, “is this really my friend?”

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    • thehawk

      oh herrrrro kitty