Explosions, Hairballs and Mr. Happy Fridge

Cats. Nature's way of saying I hate you. Giant assholes on fluffy, silent paws. My family adpoted their first cat when I was about ten years old and we've always had cats ever since. And, until our latest pair, they've always been outdoor cats. Easier that way. They take care of business outside, they suck up to the neighbours for food and only show up at home whenever they fucking feel like it.

Our home here in the UK is located on Station Road. They call it that, because there's a fucking train station two minutes away from us. Busiest road in town, railroad crossing, giant buses, you get the idea. Not the best place to allow your cats to go outside. Our neighbour tried it and her cat got pancaked by the oncoming traffic. Our outdoor cat just mysteriously disappeared. So it seemed a reasonable thing to keep her kittens inside the house and that's that.

Now here's one problem with indoor cats, that I never had to deal with before: Hairballs. Before we had indoor cats, I've never actually seen one in my life. And you have to admit, a hairball doesn't really sound all that bad, right? You'd imagine a cute, round, cartoony little ball of, well, hair. Like cats spit out little balls of yarn or some shit. Well, they don't.
The result is something between a disgusting, hairy slug and a wookiee turd. I'd post a picture, but you should probably just google it if you're that desperate for gross images.

One of our stupid cats has also decided to hate flowers. It's her new thing. We have some flowers in the window. You know, little basket of crappy little flowers on the window sill, looks nice and friendly, that kinda thing. Then the cat knocks them down and parks her fat, stupid ass right there. There's enough space for 38 cats right next to the flowers. Both sides. There's a perfectly comfortable leather sofa right in front of the window, as well as a comfy leather armchair in front of the other window. But no, cat's gotta sit on the fucking narrow window sill, fall asleep and fall on her retarded face every 20 minutes. And in order to do so, the flowers need to die. Again and again.

In other news: BOOM! Explosions!
I was just sitting here last night, playing games, surfing the web, everything was fine and then there was a loud bang and all the lights went out. And apparently, sparks were flying across the room right behind me. Turns out the PSU in Claire's pc had blown up.

A little bit like this.

Weird. We had ordered that thing on Amazon just a few months ago and it had nothing but great reviews. Okay, there's always the occasional 1 star dipshit going, "There was no power cord included!" or "Y u no deliver screws?", but there were no problems with the product itself. Oh well, time to tell support! Here's my email to Amazon:

[...]I'm no scientist, but I'm relatively sure this is not supposed to happen. This PSU should have been more than powerful enough to support my PC, which it did until just now. 

This thing literally exploded within less than a year of purchase. I will gladly send it back to you as proof. Now, I know it's a bit difficult to prove that I didn't use it the wrong way, but I can assure you I do not keep my computer in the oven or near any explosives, I did not share a drink with my PSU and I have paid special attention not to hurt its feelings, thereby possibly causing it to self-destruct as a result of depression or low self-esteem. I used it to power my home computer. That's it. 

I know it's a bit late for the 30 days return policy and everything, but surely there must be some way to get my money back for receiving exploding computer hardware? At the very least, explosions should have been added to the feature list on the product website. 
Just, please, whatever you do, don't send us a PSU from the same manufacturer as a replacement. I'm starting to run out of computers to blow up. 

Please let me know if there's anything I can do. My money back or a coupon or something would be awesome. I love money and things.

And here is their response:

Dear Customer,

Greetings from Amazon.co.uk.

We are writing to confirm that we are processing your refund in the amount of £XX for your Order 202-1004913-9902718.

This amount has been credited to your payment method and will appear when your bank has processed it.

Sweet!

Yes, this is an actual picture of what happened next.

Claire is patiently waiting for her replacement now (thanks, Haggy!) and making the best of things. I don't know how the fuck she manages to be so positive all the time. This is why I need her so much and it's why we're meant to be together. I'm a born pessimist. The glass isn't just half empty, it's the wrong drink. Meanwhile, Claire is in Mushroom Kingdom or some shit. I'm not making this up.

The other night, a giant moth would park its fluffy ass on the side of her screen. "Yaaaay! I have a moth buddy!" A what? Well, it just sat there for an hour or two, then flew away. "Bye Mr. Moth!" she shouted, then looked at me. "He was a good moth."
"How the fuck can you tell?"
"He looked happy."
Oh. Okay.

But we don't just have a Mr. Moth, an assortment of Mr. Spiders and a Mr. Locust, who escaped one of the reptile tanks and has since started to eat our curtains. There's also Mr. Vacuum and Mr. Oven and, most importantly, Happy Fridge. But only when he's full of stuff. So when Tesco shows up, it's Happy Fridge time.

He even looks happy. Bit dirty perhaps.

Okay, here's a serious question: How do you react when a 58 year old man brags about his 23 year old girlfriend? Before you answer, here's a bit of a plot twist: That guy is your father.

My old man is the kind of person, who would change his mind about picking me up from the airport (without telling me), because he's got to raid on World of Warcraft. I wish I was making this up.
Back when I still lived in Germany and visited Claire in the UK, my old man agreed to pick me up at the airport when I get back. So I get off the airplane, it's midnight, I've got a heavy suitcase with me (and not one of those cool rolly ones, either) and my father is nowhere to be seen.
Long story short, he had left me a message on my mobile's voice box, telling me to just grab a taxi or something because he had to raid.
I didn't even have enough money for a train ticket. Boarded a train anyway, because I couldn't exactly walk all the way home. It was 2am by the time I got home. I had to get ready for work five hours later. Yay. He did similar things around Christmas (got up in the middle of dinner, went to play WoW with the family still sitting there, never came back) and at just about every possible awkward opportunity. I'm sure his now dissolved marriage has failed for all sorts of reasons and I daren't say whether he got addicted to online gaming because his relationship was shit or the other way 'round.

He's also the kind of person, who keeps on promising to visit me in the UK (been living here for three and a half years now), but never actually shows up. Funniest thing is his reaction when I tell him a flight there and back is only 100 Euros. "Wow, I had no idea it was so cheap! I don't really know much about these things." Right. Guy has been flying before I was born and all, but he doesn't know how to google a plane ticket. Fuck, Claire managed to book and pay for a flight to Germany when she was 20 - first time she had boarded an airplane in her life! Which begs the question - if he doesn't even know how much a flight over here costs, how the fuck can he say he'd love to come over here as soon as he can afford it? Apparently he couldn't be bothered to even look at how much it would cost him. Some sincerity.

Anyhow. He's bragging about the 23 year old intern he's boning at his new job. Because that's something to brag about to your children, right? That guy has kids, all of which are older than his girlfriend. My girlfriend is older than his girlfriend. He's telling me that he's cutting down on WoW, because a 23 year old has interests other than online gaming. What interests could her and my dad possibly have in common? What could they possibly have to talk about? Surely she can't be that fucking pretty! I mean, for fuck's sake, the midlife crisis hits some folks harder than others, but... ARGH! We don't get to choose our parents. I have to make the best of it. I'm supposed to respect him and all, so why does he have to make it so fucking difficult?

I don't think I'm ever going back to Germany.

-Cat