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.

Namaste.