I had the weirdest day. Ok, so I woke up early to be on set at 5:30. We're working on this short set in 2035, about this computer genius living in a house built on a old computer dumping site. mmm... So after that I rush over to Soho to meet with Walid to chat about magazine stuff and that's when I remembered the non-Nadine conversation I had with Joe, my housemate last night. Since Matthew, another flatmate left, the cats have been acting strange, and naturally everyone except me care. So Joe asked me whether I would have a minute (a minute, sure, and hour, no) to take the cats to the vet and have them checked out. Being the idiot that I am I said, yes, off course, no problem. Got it. Consider it done. So there I rush from Soho to Brooklyn to collect the slobs from my apartment and take them to the vet. 15 minutes pass and all I manage is turning a black T-shirt into a fur coat and a perfect neck into a scratch pad. So I walk over to the vet, and tell them that if they don't suggest how I could get the cats from my apartment to them, I will be doing it my way, which involves the cats not being alive. They handed me a carrier box. Back home I manage to shove Malachi (yes that's what you name your cat these days) into it, but under no circumstances would Moses oblige. So I leave him at home. As I walk to the vet I thought to myself, self, what the f. I hate cats, and I don't mean, guys wearing white shoes and buckled belts hate, I mean like unbearable hatred. And here I am feeding them, sweet talking them and taking them (or a half them) to the vet.
The cat turned out to be fine. Just stressed. Fancy that. I mean, the first picture does scream stressed right?
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