cats, glorious (heart breaking) cats

I miss my roommate's cat. I miss my dead cat. I don't miss my living cat - and he doesn't really behave as if he cares one way or the other, so we're even. The only thing that living cat has going for him are his looks. He's a lovely and ornate empty vase, an antique Tiffany lamp with a 25 watt amber blub. Bless his little heart, he's as dim as an amber 25 watt bulb.

What idiot said "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with"? It's a lie - it's pure BS. Oh, Testify, thine own heart!

I'm in near proximity to one of the most beautiful cats ever placed on this earth - a living, breathing masterpiece of feline design - and here I live and breathe, catless and profoundly lonely.

If I don't get a cat fix soon I don't know what's going to go down.

Sometimes I feel like my beating heart depends on a warm cat.

And while I am here, an update re: the below post, and a reminder to myself that my penchant for withholding pleasure from my own self is alive and well. I can afford a shelter's worth of my favorite drug, but instead I reason with myself that I'm just "not ready" yet. Not ready for what?

What is wrong with me?

Answers accepted in comments section.