Every morning is an adventure when you start the day by extracting an unconscious cat from the toilet with a pair of barbecue tongs. Just follow the whimsical trail of lukewarm vomit plops trailing down the hallway and the eye-watering stank of drugstore knock-off Brut cologne. K DD is under the (mistaken) impression that if she douses herself with enough, it will mask the odor of cannabis steaming from her Coors Light-encrusted pelt. Well I can guarantee she will suddenly not be so drowsy when she hears me open the fridge and then she will come tumbling in, waving the sopping toilet brush like a smiting wand, bellowing for chardonnay, which she refers to as “wet food”. Disgraceful.