"Remember that cat I was fostering until she found a home?" Saviabella said.
"Yeah?" I said.
"I finally found a home for her. She went to this really cool punk couple who were both covered in piercings and tattoos. The girl brought treats when she met the cat, and they cuddled right away."
"I envisioned her going to a spinster aunt type who obsessed about her cats and crocheted all the time."
"Oh, god. Shit," I said. "You just described me, except that I'm married and probably get laid more often."
"Oh, no, I didn't mean that you were like that."
"Nope, you nailed it. I am a crazy cat lady. Thank god for the Palinode, or I'd be pretty depressed right now."
"Good thing," she agreed.
"Nope. Dammit. It's still depressing."
I briefly considered giving all three cats away and taking up a smack habit from which I could later recover and then write a dramatic account of my post-cat-lady plunge into a drug-induced psychosis that nearly convinced me to assassinate Sting in a bid to rid the world of unnecessarily long sexual intercourse. But then, I realized that I was on a trip to the mall to hunt up some cheap yarn for the afghan I'm crocheting, and I lost myself in thoughts of the double crochet stitch I learned a couple of days ago, made a mental note to pick up some more cat litter, and salivated over the mall burgers that were coming closer and closer with every step.
A crocheting cat lady, I am, then, with a penchant for mall burgers. Sting and his sexual super powers are safe for another day.