Look - my feisty feline has a purer civilizational provenance than I do, as I'm quite sure I have a significant amount of Neanderthal blood in me, hence my fondness for a cappella music and my eyebrows that shelter me from the rain.
In any case, how amazing to think that a glorious, affectionate creature like my darling calico Lexie is likely to have had the same grandmother 100,000 years removed as a revolting line of bony, ill Siameses that people pay money for. Buying a cat, indeed. How absurd, as if giving money makes it yours. Feeding it and getting it to like you more than all the other people who'd feed it are what makes a cat yours.
I need this weekend - I'm exhausted. Some visitors invited themselves over from Paris and anxious as I am to see them I hope to fuck they don't show up until tomorrow. Also I have some new books to review, this time from Bloomsbury, and they look like I'll have to try hard to like them.
If it wasn't already taken, they should just call that place The Pottery Barn; I don't think I saw a single title I recognized in their catalogue besides Harry Potter's adventures. All the other authors must be pisssed off the entire marketing budget of the place is going into one mega-institution (besides a something for sending review copies to bloggers).