... you can't expect me to cuddle up to you, can you? I mean - you deserted me. For what? For a whole lot of paintings, very few of which had cats in them. Or cat food. So I don't see the point.
Gramsci will, doubtless, be all over me again by the time we go to bed. And he doesn't know quite how exhausting half a day driving down the 5 can be, full of Tesla drivers hell bent on not making it till tomorrow.
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