My brain is pickled. It totally is. And it probably has “latent” protozoan living in it that are causing me to do crazy things like meander aimlessly through the house and shriek wildly about how no one will do anything—pick up papers, pick up books, do the dishes, bring in wood, make the beds, get dressed, blow their noses—unless I tell them to.
I’m not joking about the protozoan. Some 65-year-old dude with orange clown hair says that bugs—cat bugs, specifically—are living in our brain cells and making us do things that aren’t in our best interest, such as driving off roads and yelling at people.
And here I thought I was dealing with PMS. If only.
I knew we shouldn’t have let the cat it the house, dagnabbit. Cats don’t make us feel cozy (though I could’ve sworn that’s what I was feeling)—they make us CRAZY.
Thank you, the Atlantic, for such uplifting reporting. And for giving me a new name for my problems. I can always use a good scapegoat, er, scapecat.