I’m still alive. I dunno how, but I am. I exist. I am not a figment of my own imagination, as that would not make much sense.
If I said I talked to a girl today, would that seem weird? I don’t think it would. I do it all the time. There are several I know whom I really like. Never as anything more than acquaintances or friends, but that feeling may not always be mutually shared. It’s hard to tell. I’m like a cat in this arena. Give me too much attention and I’ll want nothing to do with you. It’s just how I’m wired. I’d rather go and do solitary things and decompress after spending ten minutes talking to someone. Having people follow me around while I’m trying to escape ruffles my fur the wrong way. Is it my fault if my claws come out? I don’t think my brain is wired the same as everyone else. I’m like a lykoi in a world of yap dogs. I just want a quiet box to hide in, and maybe some fish treats and fuzzy things to bat at. All the barking makes me slightly neurotic and irritable. Just ranting. Don’t mind me.
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(Staring at you from inside my safe cat hideout, ignoring you as usual, wondering when you’re gonna feed me.)
My spirit animal is the pallas cat, I think. I was born the wrong species. Humans are weird. Wanna l-lysine treat?
(. . . and, also, if it’s not asking too much, how ’bout changing the litter? This stuffs a week old.)