Wednesday bitch

More problems with authority and identity (on which I've bored before). The spic'n'span filing system reveals not only the lack of a valid birth certificate and notarised name-change, but the imminent expiry of my passport. You'd think that would be straightforward, but the application for renewing a passport requires a social security number, which I don't have, and to apply for a social security number requires a certified birth certificate, which I don't...

An extremely expensive call to the Embassy in London assured me that my application would be considered, even if I was quite possibly imaginary by virtue of having no social security number. This kindly saved me the trouble of shooting myself in deference to the clear fact that I do not exist.

Even worse- hairballs. Yesterday, Heather helped me houseclean (she's very good to me), but my sponging up of hairball catsick from several sites ended with serious retching and much disgust. Toilets, litter trays, nappies and shit just do not elicit this reaction. All was better until this morning when another stomach-churning hairturd in a neat pool of crunchy vomit appears on the same carpet cleaned yesterday, and already primed, just the sight of it was enough to set me off.

She, the emetic one, is hanging out in the windowless, cool toilet to escape the heatwave today. I recommend that she uses the facilities there to relieve Herself of any further anti-alimentary offerings.

**Breaking news**

Now She's challenged my statement that shit doesn't bother me by developing a nasty faecal dreadlock at Her, em, rear-end. Normally these do not trouble me much- a simple, clinical clipping using the household scissors- but this one was fucking wet and malleable. Another trip to retch in the toilet. Don't be surprised if She accidentally tries to fly with the birds from her windowsill perch. I've had enough.