Cats are my kryptonite.
I walk into an apartment with a cat and my skin begins to crawl. They not only freak me out, they give me hives. Within an hour, I contract violent flu-like symptoms. I can blow through a tissue box a Kleenex a minute. I will try to kick the cat. I will make an attempt to open the door and let it run away — by accident, I swear.
Some of my best friends have cats. These friends are divided into two types: the kind of friend that resents me for not visiting, and the friend who has seen my face swell up around a tabby and pretends not to care that I snub their housewarming party.
Last night I arrived at a baby animal themed surprise party in Williamsburg (where else?) to greet two cats. They were cute cats, I haltingly admitted, and tried to hold back the urge to flush one down the toilet. Fast forward one hour and one 22 of Olde English malt liquor, and my nose had worked itself into a state of no return.
I sat on the L back towards Manhattan clenching tissues, my eyes emitting soupy tears, my nostrils bright red, cursing cats like a crazy homeless woman with a brainsick agenda.