Catwoman

I find myself talking to the cats. They are such good listeners. I might need a therapy session, but the cats are so much cheaper. Also they don’t judge or raise their eyebrows. Most important, they don’t tell me what to do or not to do.

It’s pretty silly, I know. But even though I might be going crazy, it’s comforting to always have someone to talk to. We all know real men don’t really listen when us females go babbling with our crazy talk. But cats, they listen.

The thing is that lately I’ve realized that maybe my neighbours can hear me, either it’s that or they just look at me with a strange look because I’m strange.

Or it could be the lovely purple dressing-gown I’m wearing walking around on the balcony, with my hair all over the place, talking to my cats. You know us artist types, we don’t go to work at 8 or get dressed before noon. I thought the building across from us was empty, but lately I’ve noticed shadows behind the curtains. Then again, I must tell you, I have been reading a obsene amount of crime books lately. But the shadows are there, I’m sure, the cats see them too.

Some days I just wait for the men in white coats…

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