It's a scientific fact that the Internet is made of kittens. I must therefore submit a post on kittens, lest my blog violate the rules of physics and send us all hurtling into a black hole of illogical nothingness.

Here is a random Interwebs kittah. The world is safe for another day.

I love cats. Always have, always will. The BF calls me "Cat Goddess" because cats everywhere want to be my friend, and I want to pick them up and squeeze them until they grunt.

When Roommate 3 moved in a few months ago, she brought Rupert, a gigantic monument of a Siamese cat. Seriously, he's the size of a cocker spaniel. The first time he came into my room, I heaved him up onto my lap for pets and he bit me so hard I still have a scar on my left hand. But then he started catching the mice that live in our stove, so I forgive him. He's a fierce hunter kitty, and you can't expect a hunter to enjoy being squeezed until he grunts.

I like Rupert just fine, but he's so big, he's almost not a cat; more like a force of nature. Not one of the fun ones, though, like a rainbow or Spam. He's more like a really big hill, just hanging around, basking in his own glory. He's very kingly, our Mr. Rupert. I don't have a picture of him. He considers it uncouth to pose for my blog. He'd rather see his image on money or a postage stamp than a 23-year-old broke writer's blog.

Fortutately for me, on Thursday, Roommate 2 brought this home. She calls him Evander because the tip of his left ear was bitten off before he came to us. (Obscure 90s reference: Mike Tyson bit off Evander Hollifield's ear in a boxing match.) He also only has three toes on his back foot. A proper Brooklyn stray, this one, plucked right off the mean streets of Bedstuy. A ghetto kitten. Evander the Ghitten. Needless to say, Rupert haaaaaates him. And I loooooove him.

Here's me squeezing him until he grunts. See him grunting? He's purring, too. You can't hear it, because he's too little (and because you're looking at a computer screen), but when I hold him his whole little kitten body vibrates like a cell phone.

Yes, I loves the new kittah. I loves him good. And he loves me. He's in my room now, playing with my wine corks. I call him Van. Van Cat. Van Kittah. Little Kitty. Awww... how does he not implode under the weight of his own cuteness?

Rupert is so jealous that today he came into my room and hung out on my rug to remind me who is King Boss Cat in this house. I stroked him a bit and assured him that he was still loved and that he would always be king. He was mildly reassured.

Here is another kitten.