Leaderboard

While my husband fed the cats a moment ago, I squirted the younger one’s liquid medicine down his throat. Woozle, the little shit, let half the dose drip out of his mouth and roll down my shirt and shorts. I grumbled about it—because that medicine stains, turns into tar, and smells like rotten fish a roadkill—and what did Cold say? ”Well. Pussy likes to dribble.” I married this clown. I married him. (He’s not wrong, though.)