|Dress: Gap, Sweater: Anthropologie, Shoes: Payless|
This hair-do just aged me ten years.
Since the fiasco, Houston doesn't come into my room in the mornings -- it's like walking into the room makes him relive the most traumatic moment of his life. Which wouldn't be too unfortunate if instead he didn't sit directly outside my bedroom door and meowed at me to pay attention to him. Every morning I get up and go straight to the bathroom (I hate morning breath), and every morning, the minute Houston sees me walk through the door, he starts meowing super fast and loud as if to say "Oh boy, don't worry, I know the precise location of the food in question. Folloooow me!" as he runs off in the direction of his food bowl assuming I am hot on his tail (pun intended) and equally excited about the prospect of food in his bowl. He always looks so dejected when, after realizing I did not in fact follow him fearlessly, he creeps into the bathroom to find me selfishly tending to my oral hygiene. Poor guy, I think I'm giving him a complex. Don't worry it's just practice, I told Dan that if we ever have kids, I'm giving each one of them a specific complex. I think they'll appreciate it, it'll make them feel special and unique.
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