I think I've somehow managed to spoil Rupert all the way to dog status, because if I don't let him in my room, he claws the door and mews and mews until I let him in. Then, once I let him inside, he rubs up on my leg and then flops right onto his back so I can pet his tummy. What kind of cat is that? He's just like Penny.
On a bus radio, fifty ways to leave your lover alone..
All this time alone makes me realize how much I liked my alone time, but at the same time, it's not the same as before. Maybe because I didn't have anything to miss when I was alone before. Not to say I don't still like being alone. I do. Laying around in my leotards eating hot Cheetos in bed and watching 30 Rock over and over again. It's helped my writing process, too. People are always amazed that I crank out these "great" stories in a matter of days, but what they don't know is that when I used to write when I was on my own, I didn't have anything else to do for days straight which would force me to write, then eat or watch something online while revising and adding on and touching things up the whole time. Tweaking a sentence here, adding a paragraph, paring out words. And the luxury of that was lost for a while to a point where I cranked out the stories in the same short amount of days but with much less time for fine-tuning. Now I'm learning to set aside a specific time for my hermit/perfectionist style of writing and balance it out with hanging out, work, school, attempting to do yoga at home, and reading reading reading. And eating. And music. Here I leave you with a cutie moustache video:
You challenged me to write a love song
Here it is, I think I got it wrong
I focused on the negative
The pain was too much to write and sing
Oh, it was not a nice incentive