The way I see it, every object you own is connected to you by a string like the house in ‘Up,’ and each string is tied to a fishhook embedded in your abdomen.
Every time anyone anywhere dies, your phone issues a bloodcurdling shriek, and the deceased’s name, age, and cause of death appears on your screen.
1. “My relationship with cats has saved me from a deadly, pervasive ignorance.”
You can complete your work, unencumbered by the psychic incursions of non-self animals, uninterrupted by the social compulsion to greet and discuss weather/traffic/Amanda Bynes.
“What?” you say. “But I desperately wanted to pay for this extremely expensive meal rather than buy groceries for a month!”
How do other cat owners/companions allow their cats to roam the earth without supervision, knowing they could dive under a lawnmower after a cricket?
As our friendship escalates in intensity, I feel that I, being your borderline platonic/romantic companion, am obligated to advise you to terminate your relationship with the Anonymous Nobody Male.
When the waiter arrives, she orders soup, a Caribbean roll, a Ring of Fire roll, a spicy tuna roll, and a Dr. Pepper, and I frantically scan the menu, adding up the prices as she orders.
Once again, Corporate America tries to sell us on the notion you need a specific item to fulfill a given function when you can use practically anything soft to substitute for a pillow: a pile of grocery bags, pumpkin guts, leaves, even your own arm.
To ensure a long and pleasant stay on this plane of existence, you must fastidiously maintain your organic machinery as a mechanic would an expensive European concept car.