the message in the bottle is the booze

I haven't been feeling well. I need to find a new doctor here, but I hate the entire process. It takes up so much time, money, and energy--and all to sit down with someone who says "I dunno." I don't mean to be judgmental towards my doctors, because I've had some great ones, but the human body is such a complicated mess that I'm surprised so many things that can go wrong follow actual patterns in the first place. It's not their fault that sometimes they don't.

Anyway. This is what my evenings have mostly been like lately:

Mushi: I don't feel well, so I'm going to lie down.
Bu: HI I SEE YOU ARE LYING DOWN
Mushi: Hi, Bu. Good kitty.
Bu: HI HI HI LOVE ME HI HI HI
Mushi: ... yes, Bu, I love you.
Bu: I RUB MY FACE ON YOUR FACE
Mushi: Bu, stop that. I'm a little allergic to cats, you're not helping.
Bu: I USE YOUR FACE AS A PILLOW
Mushi: ... mmph.
Bu: PURR PURR NICE PILLOW
Mushi: *suffocated*

It's hard to say no, even though I suspect this is a cunning plot to kill me and turn me into meat now that she senses my weakness.