She has come to the riverside. She has run free and naked from her armor. She ain’t gonna study war no more.
My cantaloupe Casanova, I should have known you’d break my heart. Being the color of gold bullion was not enough to keep you in the Development Department. You were always bound for greater things.
Dancing girl, you are the first of your kind. You have everybody talking, twitching, asking. Your answer to every question is “yes.”
I just drank a soda that was “transformation flavored.” But if it’s growth I’m after, I should have just consulted Pickles Rosenberg, LSW.
There is a note on my desk reading, “Everything is really, truly OK.” You might say we whisper this over every Tabby’s Place cat. That would be half the story.
When things go south, as they often do, it’s easy to feel like a stumped, stooped street slug. But South and Hope belong together. Just ask stoop child Charles.
I do not think Wooderson would mind being compared to a turnip. Actually, I do not think Wooderson would mind being compared to a tadpole, or a KFC Double Down, or Grover Cleveland, or anything at all, so long as the one doing the comparing is gazing into his eyes.
T.S. Eliot, who first discovered that every cat has three names, declared April to be “the cruelest month.” Clearly he did not know the names of Mayhem, Crumpet, or Patches.
He was just a common kitten. No name, no mother, no letter of recommendation. Just a tangle of tangerine fur, tearful eyes, and a hummingbird’s drumming heart. Just a cluster of “commons.”