Cats of March_Mistaken Purpose_Mums_Klingons Have Feelings Too
Catalog Guide:
Cats of March
“So, remind me again why you wrote to your ex-boyfriend of ye olde?”“Ye olde?” “Yeah, like back when you were a young, dumb high schooler?”“Oh, well, I wrote him because I… I dunno. Something compelled me to.”“You’re crazy. I mean, how stupid can you bwww.onedoor.cce? Did you ask him if he remembered you? I bet you did. He better, that piece of shit. With what he put you through.”“It wasn’t that bad, Liesl, honestly.”“To hear you go on about it makes it sound like it was. Plus, I was there, remember? The best friend, that girl? Yeah, that was me. The one you called and cried to. ‘Liesl, he… he… oh my god h...
Mistaken Purpose
Sometimes, when life’s crazed antics become overwhelming, one just needs to step back. Close their eyes. And breathe.--- The rush of water hit me as I ped, holding my breath as my eyes strained to stay open behind my cheap swim goggles. Once I was adjusted to my changed situation, I swam a little farther out to avoid any potential falling rocks. I could barely see the hand in front of me in the murky water, but that was hardly surprising. It was the ocean after all. What I could see was the fish around me, their dull scales occasionally flashing in the little light that made it under...
Mums
I open my heavy dark oak door, and as I step outside the cool spring breeze wraps around me. I shiver, surprised by the frigid wind, but wrap my arms around myself and continue to the flower stand. I’m on my way to buy a bouquet for my friend Ana, who’s been having some trouble with family recently, when my body starts to steadily adjust to the weather. I notice the dark clouds forming above, rain I smile to myself. My favorite weather, sitting inside, covered up to my chin in blankets, drinking warm milk or coffee while reading or watching a movie. Rain has always calmed me down, relaxed me ...
Klingons Have Feelings Too
“Ah, Mr Chekhov, I was just admiring your gun.”As a chat up line, it isn’t great, but we’re at a Star Trek party (the original 1960s TV series, not any of the spin-offs or the much cooler, recently reimagined films), organised by my friend Jake, who just happens to be Nick (aka Chekhov)’s housemate.“It’s not a gun…” – his words are laced with flirtation – “…I’m just really pleased to see you.”He’s lying, of course – no one, no matter how well-endowed, has a detachable member that he can conveniently tuck into a holster at his side. But I laugh anyway and step closer, wishing that my own costu...