Draw me a picture of a cat with nice tits, okay
I told him I wish I had been born a cat because then none of this would have ever happened. Cats don’t cry when somebody loves them. Cats stay cool. I imagine I’d be curled up on his bed right now, the bed that soon became mine once I had discovered how strangely comforting it felt to just lay there, naked and for hours on end, like heroin, the sun streaming in through the same perverted window that often beckoned a whole street to come listen to my pleasurable mews of delight when we went at it like.. cats. Day or night, the bed became mine. I was a desirable, feline goddess there. Bear loves cats; he always allowed me to play cat in his company, and so I was content. I’m not a cat anymore though. I’m just a girl trying to be a woman so he’ll take me back and that’s totally the wrong way to go about it, I know. Fuck it.. See, if I were a real cat, we could still cuddle up close without either of us having to hurt so bad. If I were a real cat, we could spend all our time together without either of us having to escape or feel sad. If I were a real cat, it would be silence and unconditional love and sleepy snuggles and kisses on my forehead and that damn bed I wish was still mine.