Hello Kitty

The other day I had to cable guy sit for my sister and she left me this note. It was thoughtful for her to leave a note, and I did make myself at home (I ate all of her holiday Hershey Kisses, mixed a greyhound with the good vodka, and watched the Lost marathon on the sci-fi channel).
But, what got me, and why I saved the missive...a Hello Kitty note pad? Seriously? It's like finding out that my parents use sex toys, only the opposite. Hello Kitty stuff is like for the suicidals, the delusional, the crazed who can't even feign indifference. It's what comes in the gift bag when you check out of the mental ward after electroshock therapy (along with a box of pantyliners, two disposable enemas, a pint of Old Harper whiskey, condoms, and illegal fireworks*).
Of course I asked Junior about this Hello Kitty phase and she said that the note pad isn't hers. Yeah, like the shark-ling in the jar of formaldehyde on the mantel isn't mine.
Liar! I know, and she knows, that she bought this thing at the dollar store (they really don't have a good selection, but sometimes you get lucky and there's Spongebob themed stuff, which is troubling on a different 'I can't face reality' level). And if she didn't buy it for herself, then why is it there? Hmm? Did she buy it for me and chicken out presenting it to me at the last minute? Thinking that I would react poorly to such a strong and damningly innocuous affront to my subconscious manifesting itself in my day to day life? Is that what she thought? Giggling to herself madly while she doled out the dollar and six cents tax for this note pad!!!!! Is that what was going through her head?!!!11!!1
Ahem.
*Courtesy of The Simpsons