I might be Jesus. Or just a really bad cat owner.

So, this morning I awoke, yawned and realised that my face was full of blood, dripping away in a jaunty manner without a care in the world. So, there I sat with bloody palms, blood flowing freely from my forehead and a very clueless expression on my face. Obviously, I assumed that these were stigmata wounds and that I was the new Jesus. I had the time to make a rough plan on how I could use my new position as the child of God in order to create peace on earth and end poverty and chain Dylan Moran in a gold bikini to me and all other things people usually wish for before I realised that I was probably not a supreme deity. The far more likely explanation for the blood was sitting right in front of me, proudly purring and licking his arse. My cat Nietzsche had probably tried to engrave his initials in my forehead (he never really got the hang of that grafitti thing, my cat), and he's freaking out because he's becoming a man-cat and therefore he's very angry all time and I try to sit him down and talk to him about what happens when a man-cat and a woman-cat love each other very much and hug a lot in order to get a kitten. Then he bit my finger so hard I bled all over him and I really don't think that bleeding on your child/cat is such a good parental style so I just gave up, gave him his weird favourite treats (raspberry yoghurt, müsli and koriander), whispered "Tomorrow we're having you neutered" and then ran like hell. It felt subtle. And now I'm afraid to fall asleep.

I have come to realize that raising a cat is at least as difficult as raising a baby. For one thing, babies don't wake you up in the morning by trying to bite your eye. Unless you have a homicidal baby. Then, you kind of have bigger problems to deal with than to read this. Another thing is the Chinese sleep deprivation torture that will occur every single night for the rest of your life and  make you age 60 years and become more and more like a Vietnam war veteran; rocking back and forth whilst repeating "I'VE SEEN SOME THINGS, MAN!" . but with less bombs and more angry kittens. Sounds awesome? Think again. However, cats do have some advantages compared to babies that I ought to mention.

Why cats are better than babies:
1. You can buy kittens and bring them home in a cage instead of pushing them through your vagina. In fact, pushing them through your vagina might even be frowned upon.
2. When you correct them by waterspraying them in the face, people don't overreact and call child services.
3. You can sterilise them without being judged by your neighbours.
4. If cats make noises during the night, you can just put them in the kitchen and close the door.
5. Even at a very early age, they learn how to use the litter box without any problems. A kitten learns how to poop and pee in a box at the tender age of one month, whilst a baby waits three years just to learn that one ought not to poo where one sleeps. Every time I hear some overbearing smothering mother brag about her fantastic son who can burp all of Beethoven's sonnets I have to restrain myself from reminding her that my cat could leap 1.5 meters straight up in the air when he was three months old. It mostly just ends with me screaming "WELL, my cat poops at a fifth grade level!". If your cat doesn't poop at a fifth grade level, peer pressure him/her into pooping. All the cool kids are doing it.

I'm not sure what I was aiming for with this post. All I know is that I'm probably Jesus and that I have lost a lot of blood. They might have something to do with each other.

Relationships are like hygiene-based chicken races. But with fewer sportscars and more body odours

One of the problems, or perks depending on how much self esteem / dignity you possess, caused by living with your boyfriend is that all attempts to hide the fact that you are both farting, pooping, sweating humans become utterly futile. When your relationship is still in the new, romantic and daisy-smelling phase, you can always manage to get up early before the other person wakes up and shower/redo your makeup/shave/hide your tail, in order to maintain the illusion of you two being glamourous, stylish beings in control of your bodily fluids. This will pass. Trust me, one day you are re-applying your lipstick every five minutes, and the next day you only put deoderant in the armpit that you will have angled towards your partner. It doesn't get prettier - burping contests and pimple-squeezing replaces candle-lit dinners and romantic strolls around the park, and instead of eating chocolate mousse off of each others bodies, you mainly just eat the chocolate mousse while watching tv and arguing on the best way to raise your cat. You know that you have entered the all too comfortable phase the very second you start to have hygiene chicken races around the house, which are mainly based on a competition on who can last being disgusting or living in your disgusting apartment the longest.

However, for some reason, this stage of the relationship is so much better. It's really a rush knowing that someone loves you despite of you looking like something bursting out of a bloke's chest in an Alien film; knowing that someone even loves you because you can eat 2 kilos of baby back ribs and then have a farting contest with yourself and not win.

I think I'm going to surprise my boyfriend with some romantic gesture when he returns tonight. Maybe arrange the cat poo in the kitty litter box so it spells out I LOVE YOU.

Because I care.

I have sour cream hubris. Not sure if I should cry or be proud.

So, last night I ate 15 baby back ribs. That's 2 kilos of pure meat. It was awesome. Today my stomach hurts. I imagine that my stomach is sitting in one of those spinning chairs that Bond villains always sit in when Bond enters; petting my appendicitis like a white Persian cat and welcoming every large chunk of meat with a "Ah, large portion of food not suitable for healthy diet - I have expected you." I have always had a complicated relationship to food in general; having been through several turns of eating disorders, eating has always been one of my biggest loves and fears. Thanks to the removal of my thyroid a couple of years ago due to a cyst, I have an unusually high metabolism (not in a "I bet there's a Dorian Gray-like picture of her growing fatter and fatter somewhere in an attic"-way, but in a way that people suspect that I lie about my diet) which is both a blessing and a curse; I have an appetite greater than any normal 20-year-old girl, and can easily consume a kilo of candy in one sitting, half a kilo of marzipan between meals and just endless amounts of meat. Sure, sounds like heaven - apart from the fact that my binge eating caises me terrible panic attacks and regret. I don't even understand how those model girls can manage through the day on just one little stupid salad, denying themselves a second portion because they inhaled a large amount of dust for lunch or something like that - I think constantly of food, counting the hours to my next meal. It's not even remotely healthy, but I have come to terms with it, and yesterday's feast was a victory - I didn't feel guilty for one second after my sixth portion of ribs. So, ladies and gentlemen (you three people who actually will read this), I present to you: My Everest. My sad, sad, delicious Everest.

My first apartment. Also, unless toilet paper is made out of the skin of unicorns, it shouldn't be that fucking expensive.

The new year started off quite well with me, my cat Nietzsche and my boyfriend moving in together, and me moving out of my parents' attic. There's just nothing more relaxing and comfortable than waking up fully dressed after a New Years party with the hangover dripping from your ears and then having to move heavy boxes and an entire goddamn sofa whilst a hysterical kitten tries to maim your foot because you won't let him eat the curtains. The three of us have been living together for three days now, and I can't say that we are unaffected by the strains on a relationship that usually follows moving in together - "I love you but if you don't stop breathing so loud I will strangle you with your own intestines" have become something of a standard greeting for me, and how my poor boyfriend manages to persevere through my balanced cycle of crying, eating absurd amounts of chocolate and accusing him of things because he looked at me funny is beyond me. 

My grandmother always say "Let there be space in your togetherness", and she really has a point - no couple in the world would survive if they clung on to each other 24/7 for the rest of their lives. One problem with living together is that you can actually feel the romance leave your body with every fight regarding how best to store granola or who's time it is to clean the toilet, and romantic behavior transforms, from passionate kissing or bitch-slapping each other with roses or whatever ordinary people to to show their affection to one another, to thinking that leaving the crust on the evening sandwich is as exciting and raunchy as a threesome. 

Also, I treated myself to a dish brush. The glamour of moving into your first apartment is overwhelming.