This post is going to offend a lot of cat lovers. But I am happy ruffling some feathers. Or some fur :)
I do not like cats. Such feeble, obnoxious creatures, with nothing to show for their arrogance. Despite them looking good and being soft to the touch, they have no personality, no strength, no capabilities. And most of all, no loyalty. No loving, caring nature.
I do not get people who like cats either. They tend to be cat-like too, a bit too airy and surface-skimming for my taste. There is no weight, there is no depth. I generally dislike things without a weight. The society we live in is bubblegum enough.
I adore dogs. They are so very lovable, whatever the kind or gender. Such gentle yet powerful creatures, so humble despite their formidable personalities. I cannot simply imagine, a life without one, two or three of these adorable, beautiful beings. They are family.
I like people who like dogs. They tend to possess some of the dog-like qualities that I so adore; big, warm beings, with big, warm hearts. Weighty, well-grounded and often, deep. Real people.
Dogs are loyal, loving and true. Cats are opportunistic, moody and unreliable.
And as they say, there are cat people and then there are dog people.
I do not like packing. It is cumbersome and unnecessary. I tend to put it off till I can no longer put it off. Like I am doing now. I like travelling light, but can't afford to do so at this point as I have my clothing and reading needs. I have realized that I may have to get myself a mobile library to carry with me all the books I want to take whenever I go somewhere. Sigh...the many trials of a book lover's life.
Besides, packed bags always make me sad, although I do not often know what I am sad about.
I often forget that I'm an "author". They call me that and I'm not quite sure if I am in fact, that. It's a big word, quite a big word and I feel myself to be quite small for it. Like an ill-fitting dress three times my size. I need to grow into it, plump myself up quite a bit before I wear the suit in pride. There is a long, long way to go. It feels strange typing it too. So I often forget that I must take along some of my own books whenever I attend a writers' festival or etc. I almost forgot it this time too.
Sad. Nobody to pester Daddy Dearest into eating right while I'm gone. Nobody to make sure Franky boy stays out of mischief too. A small, sharp string of pain twinges and whips about like a stray piano wire inside.
I'm sure I'm being silly. It's only for a little while.
I do not like cats. Such feeble, obnoxious creatures, with nothing to show for their arrogance. Despite them looking good and being soft to the touch, they have no personality, no strength, no capabilities. And most of all, no loyalty. No loving, caring nature.
I do not get people who like cats either. They tend to be cat-like too, a bit too airy and surface-skimming for my taste. There is no weight, there is no depth. I generally dislike things without a weight. The society we live in is bubblegum enough.
I adore dogs. They are so very lovable, whatever the kind or gender. Such gentle yet powerful creatures, so humble despite their formidable personalities. I cannot simply imagine, a life without one, two or three of these adorable, beautiful beings. They are family.
I like people who like dogs. They tend to possess some of the dog-like qualities that I so adore; big, warm beings, with big, warm hearts. Weighty, well-grounded and often, deep. Real people.
Dogs are loyal, loving and true. Cats are opportunistic, moody and unreliable.
And as they say, there are cat people and then there are dog people.
I do not like packing. It is cumbersome and unnecessary. I tend to put it off till I can no longer put it off. Like I am doing now. I like travelling light, but can't afford to do so at this point as I have my clothing and reading needs. I have realized that I may have to get myself a mobile library to carry with me all the books I want to take whenever I go somewhere. Sigh...the many trials of a book lover's life.
Besides, packed bags always make me sad, although I do not often know what I am sad about.
I often forget that I'm an "author". They call me that and I'm not quite sure if I am in fact, that. It's a big word, quite a big word and I feel myself to be quite small for it. Like an ill-fitting dress three times my size. I need to grow into it, plump myself up quite a bit before I wear the suit in pride. There is a long, long way to go. It feels strange typing it too. So I often forget that I must take along some of my own books whenever I attend a writers' festival or etc. I almost forgot it this time too.
Sad. Nobody to pester Daddy Dearest into eating right while I'm gone. Nobody to make sure Franky boy stays out of mischief too. A small, sharp string of pain twinges and whips about like a stray piano wire inside.
I'm sure I'm being silly. It's only for a little while.
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