Quiet Night

I'm listening to Buddha Bar, volume 6, to be exact. Tom burnt it for me, as I liked it when we were in Queensland. It's a quiet night. Missy is lying stretched out in front of the fire. She grabbed my foot in both her paws and pulled it onto her face, as I watched The Simpsons. She's got this strange foot fetish, which extends beyond curling around my feet and going to sleep, as I type on the computer. There is nothing she likes more than to slide her face into my shoes, as soon as I take them off after getting home from work, and going to sleep. Kitten trauma, do you think? Tim did leave her locked in a flat for twelve months while he was on a speed binge, but that was only a few years ago, the year before I got her, so I guess that doesn't count as childhood pussy angst.

I love the way you dream, sings the voice on the CD. I've always thought that about nearly all of my partners. I've always loved their minds, their dreams, their way of doing stuff, before their bodies.

Actually, that's not quite true, as I guess you can guess, but they have to have brains as well as looks.

I love Missy more - and people too - for her quirks, not less. Don't you think it is the oddities in people and not their normalcy that is attractive? But as they - I love the omnipotent they - say, it is those quirks that you are most attracted to as you fall in love that you find most annoying as you fall from love again. Best traits, worst traits, often the same thing.

Missy came after the greatest cat in the world, my old cat who died a few years back, so she had to have some spunk to fit in around here. Blue's shadow loomed large. Everybody, I know, loved him.

But Missy is pretty fine too, she fits in just right.

No pot, the head is clear and I'm doing stuff. Amazing! I decide I want to do something and low and behold it's done. Just like that.