This Blog is meant to be about girls, but I was a bad child of the forest and wrote about cats last time. So, now I repent: I write about girls.
I do have one defence for my departure from my usual theme, viz that cats and lesbians are two sides of the same coin. Not just any coin – a shiny silver American Dollar. Aka an awesome coin. Not your run-of-the-mill coin. No.
Both cats and girls are equidistant from my soul. Cats sit to the left, next to my ventricle. Girls sit to the right, squarely placed on my aorta. When my heart pumps blood, a bolus of haemoglobin passes by cats, and another passes by girls. They respirate, using my oxygen. And I like it that way.
For fear of being universally condemned for using a Carrie Bradshaw-ism, that got me to thinking – how alike are cats and lesbians, really? I hypothesise they are kindred spirits. They are like Rosco and Kool-Aid. They are like Wesley and student hackery. They are like me and Jean Val Jean. Have you ever met a lesbian who doesn’t like cats? I mean, have you really? I doubt it.
Cats like licking pussy. For risk of sounding crude, lesbians like that too.
However, there’s one big, fat, obese difference between cats and lesbians. For risk of sounding jaded (which I am), cats don’t break hearts. Sure, they share their love around a bit; they’re most definitely polyamarous, but they’re not giant douchebags. Girls, unfortunately, can be. We’ve all had our hearts broken. But not by cats.
However, something (slash someone) has waltzed along into my sphere of acquaintances and made me feel a bit less jaded. She’s really fucking lovely, and we have a date on Sunday. I’m kinda really excited. I haven’t let myself BE excited about a girl for a while, because they usually turn out to be total, mammoth letdowns. But this one is special. She’s genuinely brilliant. Like, smart and insightful as anything. I know that because she has a comic and I’ve read most of it now, and it’s bloody good. Like Neil Gaiman good. I’m not kidding.
In other news, I’m listening to Iron & Wine at the moment and it’s kind of rocking my world.
It’s really no secret that I am enamoured with small mammals of the feline variety. Small little things that are made of fur and organs and tough tongues and skinny tails. Tiny little things that sleep and poop and purr and cuddle. Aka cats.
I identify as many things, one of which is a crazy cat lady. I live with two other crazy cat ladies, namely my housemates, Wesley and Rosco. Sir Boffin the Boy has an affinity for Wesley and the foot of Wesley’s bed, whereas Dame Pillicent likes my room. I’m not sure what it is about my chamber that gets her going. Perhaps it’s my three IKEA lights. Perhaps it’s the smell of my perfume. Perhaps it’s the Melbourne Football Club calendar on my wall – I’m pretty sure she likes checking out the players.
That’s another thing about Pillie. She’s straight. She likes men. She likes Rosco’s boyfriend, Lucas, a lot. He’s one of the few people who can pick her up. Anyone else, she flails and wriggles until she is dropped. Since we are a Queer household, naturally we expected, nay, we DEMANDED that our kittens be queer. But Pillie has failed us. She likes men. Luckily, hope remains, as the jury’s still out on Boffin’s sexuality. I secretly suspect that Rosco is having an affair with Boffie in the depths of the night, but of course, until I purchase a security camera and install it in Rosco’s room, I have no proof.
Even now as I sit in my Hemnes blogging, I have two cats between my legs. We are engaging in a mutual transfer of heat. It’s really fairly wonderful.
Now I must finish this blog, and write another blog, about girls.