I cannot seem to stay awake for the entire day. Nor asleep for the entire night.
Matter of fact, I napped a couple of times yesterday. Ended up falling asleep around 10:30 last night, only to wake up roughly around 1 AM this morning. It was still 1 AM at the time, the clocks on the phones hadn't jumped forward an hour yet. Woke up and crawled out of bed just as there was a knock on the door.
Ninja had finally gotten off work and had shown up. He texted me earlier in the night, asking if we'd still be up when he got off. I knew I wouldn't, but the Redhead would, so I told him to come on over.
Ninja hung out for a while, listening to music and bullshitting with us. That's how it goes. Around what would be 2:30, he glanced at his phone and went, "Oh. Time jumped forward an hour. It's after 3. I should go." And off he went.
Redhead and I piddled around for a while longer and ended up curling up around 4, snuggled down and ready to sleep some more.
Then a thunderstorm rolled in ahead of a cool front and woke me up around 5:30, 6 AM. I woke up and watched the lightning flash, rain battering against the window for the better part of an hour, listening to the rumble of thunder overhead.
God damn it, I am tired.
The storm slacked off and I fell back asleep, waking up around 9 AM. I laid there for an hour, trying in vain to get back to sleep before giving up and getting dressed. I should know by now, I really should. No matter how little sleep or how restless, my internal clock won't let me sleep later than 8:30 or 9 at the latest. It just doesn't work that way.
So, I did what any hungry pregnant lady did. I got dressed and walked my happy ass to the gas station to buy smokes for Redhead, drinks for both of us, and something to nibble on. Donuts for him, cheese danishes for me. Yum. I was also displeased to notice the price of cigarettes, even the cheapest of the cheap, Dorals, had jumped a dollar overnight. Redhead would not be happy about that. And then I sat down and proceeded to write the post about Iced Earth, while listening to a wide variety of their songs to inspire me. It was nice.
Also, I thought about my cat, Ping. Crazy little fucker. Love him to death. He'll be 11 years old this summer. Getting on in his years. I've had him since he was six weeks old, and he's gone through everything with me. And that's been a lot.
I've really started paying attention to some of the quirkier things he does here lately. He grows increasingly more affectionate as the days go by. Used to, he would just curl up next to my feet while I slept, occasionally wrapping his paws around my ankle. Now days, he's either directly next to my shoulder, tail flicking against my nose, or wrapped around my head on the pillow, as seen here.
Total mama's boy, Ping is.
And, like most cats, he's prone to random fits of insanity. He'll go from snoozing peacefully to a streaking blur down the hallway of the apartment, nearly kicking his litterbox over as he attempts a 180-degree turn on the linoleum, and back into the living room, bouncing his shoulder off the door frame and sending him into a roll on the carpet. He definitely doesn't feel his age, it seems.
Or yesterday. Yesterday was comical. I was attempting to clean and get some stuff organized, and wandering from room to room in the little apartment. Every time I stepped into the living room, though, Ping would stop whatever he was doing, whether it be attacking the draw string on a hoodie on the floor, or chasing a golf ball, or just cleaning his paws, and he would immediately tuck his shoulder in, rolling in that preciously cute way that cats have onto his back, back feet kicking in spastic little fits. For no reason. And I would stop and rub his belly with my toes, then move onto whatever I was doing. And he would climb back onto his feet, and carry on with whatever task I had interrupted him in.
But here lately, it seems like he's got an odd little personality quirk. Well, odder than usual.
He doesn't like closed doors. At all. If you go into the bathroom and lock him out, he will sit at the door and cry and yowl and paw, desperately trying to open it himself or get you to open it, until you either finish your business and come out, or give up and lean over to let him in. Either way, the second the door is open, he blinks at you, and runs off again to do whatever it is he does.
Or if somebody is at the apartment, and I lay down to sleep... He'll instantly curl up next to me, no questions asked. And since Redhead is usually watching TV or listening to music, I'll shut the bedroom door. Granted, the apartment is in an old house that's settled, so the door doesn't quite close right, which means... Yup, you guessed it. Ping paws it open, then immediately comes back to lay next to me.
I'm beginning to think he's claustrophobic. It explains a lot of his behavior the past few years. The smaller the place to live, with doors closing him off from whatever room (and therefore limiting his space), the louder his cries became. When I first moved in with the Redhead, after returning from Texas, Ping was insane. It was a very small one-room studio apartment, with an impossibly small kitchen and bathroom. Not a whole lot of run-around space for a spastic kitty. And he would keep Redhead and I up at night, crying over nothing.
When we moved in with Ex-Roomie and Princess, he was immensely happier, with an apartment he could actually run laps in. Amazing! Then they brought a puppy home. A puppy that's only goal in life, it seemed, was to try and swallow my poor cat's head. Said puppy was not allowed in our bedroom, for the simple reason that we didn't like the stupid mutt, and she was nowhere near housebroken. She proved that, sneaking in when Redhead hadn't closed the door completely and pissing in the middle of our bed.
She got a sound beating for that one. And I don't want to hear any cries of animal abuse from anybody. A dog is not going to be disciplined if you don't hit her in some way. Ex-Roomie doesn't believe this, insisting on merely yelling "Stella, no!" at her. No wonder she doesn't listen... and her behavior doesn't improve.
But anyway. Nobody cares about that stupid dog. I'm talking about Ping. So, to escape the wrath of a dog that nobody paid any attention to, Ping started staying in the bedroom with Redhead and I most of the day and all through the night, with occasional excursions out into the rest of the apartment while Stella was locked away.
And it went right back to the way it was at the old place. Crying all the time, shedding horribly, and just everybody being generally unhappy.
We moved into our current place just in the nick of time. Now he's back to bouncing off the walls, running hell-bent for leather after God only knows what, rolling around like he's a kitten, and just being a lovable, playful little minx.
But seriously... Can cats be claustrophobic? The smaller the space, the louder he gets... And if you close a door, he'll make sure it gets opened up, even if he has no interest in going through it.
I should call a vet and ask them that. Very weird.