Chapter 2

Disclaimer- I don't own the Grump channel.

"Honey, I'm home!" I call out as I enter my apartment. I pause for a moment as I await a response. As expected, none came. Other than my cat, who never responds when I call him, I live alone in my small apartment. I don't know why I always announce my arrival when I know I'm alone, but I do it anyways. Maybe it's to fill the silence.

As soon as the door locks, I rush into my room to change out of my uniform. I really like the color blue and all, but the collar of the shirt is always uncomfortably stiff and itchy, and the shirt itself is too tight around the chest. The pet store uniform is the same regardless of gender, so the only people comfortable in them are men and very, very flat-chested women. I'm always happy to toss it into the hamper at the end of the day. I'm even happier to change into a raggedy-ass band t-shirt and boxers afterwards.

Before long, I am laying limply on the couch playing Tetris on my laptop. It isn't terribly late, just about seven, but I'm too exhausted to do anything that takes actual brainpower. It has been a couple weeks since my fantastic fuck-up with the ladder, and the bruise on my face has faded enough that I no longer have to use makeup to cover it. It's still tender, but it is a hardly noticeable shade of yellowish-brown, nothing like the splotchy blue and red it had been. It had taken several days before my coworkers at the garage had accepted that I hadn't been attacked by anyone other than Isaac Newton and his laws of gravity. If they hadn't known perfectly well that I wasn't in a relationship, they would probably have gone on a crusade against some imagined abusive boyfriend.

I smile as I think about the guys. It had been a bit awkward at first, being one of the only women working in the garage, but everyone had been polite and welcomed me to the crew. Of course the first few months had been filled with the occasional flirting in my direction, but eventually things had settled down and I became almost like a sister to most of them. Those that still harbored romantic feelings for me had long since accepted that I am not looking for a relationship.

Well, actually, I am, but not the same kind that they want. I enjoy physical contact, but as soon as the partner starts pushing for sex, the relationship starts crumbling. It wasn't that the idea of sex makes me uncomfortable, I had canoodled with my fair share of both men and women in college, I just don't enjoy it the way everyone else apparently does. In my opinion, sex is rather like black licorice. I'll eat it occasionally if the situation calls for it, and don't really hate the flavor, but I won't go out of her way to get a big bag of it. And if I had to choose between it and something with a softer, more pleasant flavor, I would choose the other thing without hesitation. That's about as far as I'm willing to go with the comparison.

Of course, my partners in the past had been willing to hold off on the intercourse for a while, for my sake, but it never lasted for more than a few weeks before they were pushing for sex again. The relationships had always ended relatively quickly, whether from my partners breaking it off because they wanted someone who was going to satisfy their needs, or from me breaking it off because of my guilt at my partner's obvious unhappiness. Eventually I had given up on finding someone who could deal with my lack of sexual appetite. It has been almost three years since my last relationship, and aside from casual hugs from friends and colleagues, three years since I have had prolonged physical contact with another human may be no problem for some people, but I am an extremely cuddly person, and this absence of warmth has had an effect on me.

I curl into myself almost unnoticably as I bring my attention back to my computer screen. A blue "T" shaped piece is falling slowly down the screen.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Taptaptap. Tap. Taptaptaptap- "Shit." I watched as the block landed one spot away from it's intended location, blocking an entire column of empty spaces that I was intending to fill with a straight piece. If I would be willing to put in some effort, my mistake could easily be fixed in four or five moves. I'm not. The computer closed with a click. It's just then that I notice I am being watched rather intently.

"Why, hello there Pythagoras. You're being more social than usual." He blinks, then wandered into the kitchen.

"Of course. You weren't enjoying my pleasant company. You just wanted to know if I was going to feed you." I push myself up off of the couch with a sigh and follow him into the other room. He sat in front of his food dish and watched as I measured out a scoop of kibble for him. The orange tabby immediately digs in, shoving his face into the bowl as if he hadn't eaten in days. I flop onto my stomach on the linoleum and watch him eat.

"My goodness, such manners. What a gentleman." I pretend to swoon. He ignores me and just keeps on eating.

When he finally finishes eating, he gives me a single glance before wandering off somewhere to do whatever it is he does when I'm not watching. I'm pretty sure he's warming up to me. Last year he wouldn't even tolerate my presence. I had rescued him from a shelter as a kitten two years ago, as an answer to my lonliness. He then spent the next three months hiding from me, and the months after that were spent shunning me. I would have gotten another cat, but my landlord has a one pet limit and I don't have the heart to put Pythagoras back in a shelter just because he's less affectionate than I want him to be.

I consider what I can do next. I don't have enough energy for games, and I'm not tired enough to sleep. I don't really want to leave the apartment either, since I'm already dressed down for the night.

"I guess I could draw..."

I'm not a great artist, but drawing is something I do to pass the time. I'd heard from many people that art is something that you improve at the more you do it, so I work at it whenever I get the chance. Whenever a funny idea comes into my head, or a memory just won't go away, or I want to remember something, I'll sketch it out in one of my many pads. Sometimes I'll go back and neaten or color the sketch, but they often stay as shitty pencil marks. My best pieces of art are cartoons, but my pads contain everything from anime characters to labeled machine diagrams.

I grab a sketchbook and a pencil and move back to the couch. Like always when I lack inspiration, I start by drawing a pageful of dicks. For some strange reason, repeating patterns help me think. The penis part just makes the page funny to look at later. Every single one of my sketchbooks has at least three pages, front and back, of dick art. I'm only drawing for about five minutes before I get an idea of what I should sketch.

When I finish an hour later, I'm rather proud. The previously blank page in my sketchbook now contains two knights jousting with enormous dildos. Not my best work aesthetic-wise, but the idea behind it is clever enough that it can kinda get away with it. Even better, now that I have managed to work off all of my remaining energy, my brain is more than willing to go to sleep for the night. I replace my sketchpad in its rightful place and prepare for bed.

AN- Hey again. It seems a bit excessive to add the same message I put in that last chapter down here, since they'll be going up at the same time, so I won't. If you don't know what I'm talking about, just flip back and check it out. Thanks for taking the time to read this note, instead of just flipping to the next chapter that I know is up because I'm uploading it five minutes after I finish with this message.