Short Shorts.

Today I went to go feed some cats, because that's my job. I feed cats. I don't even like cats. My friend Alyssa likes cats. I don't like cats. They think they're better than you and they don't tune into your emotions and they definitely don't realize they're hurting you when they're digging their claws into your legs (or maybe they do, actually).

So I went into this house and the alarm didn't beep and the kitchen lights were on, so I immediately assumed that my boss had messed up the days again and given me the wrong schedule. Well, a man popped out from the kitchen wearing shorts that extended about seven inches down his leg, made of sweatpant material.

"Oh hey," he said to me. His tank top as white as a fresh layer of snow in the Yukon.
"Am I supposed to be here?" I asked.
He giggled.

Yes, he giggled.

"I'm the cleaning...man. Are you the cat lady?"
[NO. NO I AM NOT THE CAT LADY, NOR WILL I EVER, EVER BE THE CAT LADY. HOW DARE YOU. THIS IS A SUMMER JOB!!!!]
"Yeah, I'm the cat lady."

It all made sense when I walked into the kitchen and saw his feather duster. Needless to say, I fed those cats faster than I've ever fed cats in my life (and as fast as you could possibly feed a cat?). And then I left.

I wonder who will be there tomorrow.