Wednesday, July 28, 2004
Cat Lady
This being the blog for whiny over-dramaticness, this is going to be a whiny and over dramatic post.
I'm going to be a cat lady when I grow up. I'm going to save every last penny now so I can retire young, own my own home and fill it with cats named after the children I'll never have. There's going to be a little boy kitty called Caleb Zephir, and another called Lucien. And maybe some girl kitties. They'll sleep on my bed.
I'll scare the neighbourhood children, and they'll spread rumours about me being a witch. The 'respectable' adults will speak in hushed tones about the crazy lady on the corner, and condemn me or pity me. Maybe both. They'll make up delightful rumours about me too, about my life when I was younger. "They say she was once in love with a handsome young millionaire," says housewife Mary to her visiting sister. "He died in a freak accident, so very tragic. The moment she found out, her hair went white all over. She was never the same again." Visiting sister looks dutifully saddened, and then asks what's for lunch. "Sandwiches," replies housewife Mary.
The church-goers will occasionally drop off casseroles and such. I'll scowl at them, and they'll eventually stop with the food. To ease their consciences though, they'll pray for me occasionally, between praying for a new car and some nice weather for the church picnic on saturday.
But my cats will love me.
I guess it's not such a bad future.
This being the blog for whiny over-dramaticness, this is going to be a whiny and over dramatic post.
I'm going to be a cat lady when I grow up. I'm going to save every last penny now so I can retire young, own my own home and fill it with cats named after the children I'll never have. There's going to be a little boy kitty called Caleb Zephir, and another called Lucien. And maybe some girl kitties. They'll sleep on my bed.
I'll scare the neighbourhood children, and they'll spread rumours about me being a witch. The 'respectable' adults will speak in hushed tones about the crazy lady on the corner, and condemn me or pity me. Maybe both. They'll make up delightful rumours about me too, about my life when I was younger. "They say she was once in love with a handsome young millionaire," says housewife Mary to her visiting sister. "He died in a freak accident, so very tragic. The moment she found out, her hair went white all over. She was never the same again." Visiting sister looks dutifully saddened, and then asks what's for lunch. "Sandwiches," replies housewife Mary.
The church-goers will occasionally drop off casseroles and such. I'll scowl at them, and they'll eventually stop with the food. To ease their consciences though, they'll pray for me occasionally, between praying for a new car and some nice weather for the church picnic on saturday.
But my cats will love me.
I guess it's not such a bad future.
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