Feelings on the Third Roommate

(My half-assed second paper for my NYU humor writing class)

I have no shame in revealing my serious disinterest in all-things feline. If Noah had just hung a sign on the ark that read: NO CATS ALLOWED (like the one on my heart), it might have saved us (cat haters) a lot of trouble.

Everything about the lifestyle and mere existence of cats is truly insufferable – they are the worst things to happen to the animal world since flying cockroaches and naked mole rats. In fact, as I type this, there is a furry asshole by the name of Emma attempting to pry open my bedroom doors with its 9-inch Freddy Krueger claws.

Emma is the bitch of a cat I live with, and I think she was brought into my life as God’s way of punishing me for clearly being so awesome. It belongs to my roommate, although I’m sure if she could speak, she would probably tell you she belongs to no one.

This catnip-loving critter is the bane of my existence – from her foul, soggy canned dinners and ever-present stray gray hairs to her disgusting bathroom box and constant PDA (public display of ass-licking). Emma makes it wildly apparent that this is her dirty little world and we’re just living in it.

I realize the case against cats isn’t a new concept, but neither is my disdain for them. I have long detested the species and have yet to discover any of their so-called redeeming qualities. They are arrogant, rude, sassy, apathetic, passive/aggressive creatures who have started a worldwide campaign to ruin my life.

When I agreed to let my roommate bring Emma to New York from Texas, I did so under several conditions – Emma would need to help around the house (do the dishes, clean up her own shit, etc.) and allow me to dress her in tiny bows and kitty costumes. She has never followed through on our deal and it has created a huge strain our cohabitation (but I did manage to tape a bow to her head once when no one was looking).

Her casual I’m-bored-and-staring-at-the-wall meow is as tolerable and as angelic as a tone-deaf drunk at karaoke. And what creeps me out the most – beyond her general existence – is when she watches me in my most intimate moments – changing clothes, bathing, using the restroom. What judgmental eyes! I know she’d run off and tell all her cat friends about my secrets if she had any.

There is nothing this cat does that pleases me in the least, except when it leaves the room. She claws our furniture, she sheds, she tries on all my shoes, she meows at nothing, she puts her ass on everything. I even came home from work once to find the only thing in our mailbox was a goddamn greeting card for Emma Little-Sims. Yes, her last name is in fact hyphenated – a sad byproduct of a separated (and arguably mental) crazy cat couple. And sometimes, after she eats, she will nonchalantly vomit her entire meal in front of us as if to say, “Yeah, on second thought, I didn’t really like that. Now clean it up and find me someone’s life to ruin.”

Her talents include (and are limited to): getting hilariously stuck in obscure, oddly-shaped nooks, falling off televisions and leaping out of Duane Reade shopping bags (to which I always reply, “who let the cat out of the bag?!”). This is the extent of her purpose in my life. I’ve tried leaving windows cracked or sending her to do errands with instructions around her neck or putting ads on Facebook for a free cat, but somehow she still exists, parading around the apartment daily with her snotty cattitude.

I understand and appreciate the unconditional love of an animal – I’ve had several wonderful pets – but the love of a cat has and always will be strictly conditional. Their mass appeal remains a mystery and I wish Emma would just pack her kitty litter and go back to Texas.

Mostly, I wish I would stop talking about cats like they’re real people before someone takes away my social life and hands me a Cat Fancy and a Snuggie.