My Thoughts Exactly

Most people who meet me for the first time would assume that I am one of the dopest, friendliest, goofiest thing they have ever seen. Nope, that is the stuff of fiction.

I am not a sociable person. I mean, since when did cat people ever become outgoing and sociable? Except Taylor Swift, perhaps. She needs to be because of the nature of her business. The girl is not a pop star, she’s a bloody businesswoman who seems to have worked out all the kinks ( of her hair and) of the music industry.


Enough of Tay-tay. I have stopped stalking her both in social media and Google search. I am just tired of her entrepreneurial voracity and insatiable thirst for distinction, really. And I am stark mad that she didn’t include me in her girl squad. (You know I am kidding, right?)

So what I know about sociable people is that they are like Taylor Swift who likes to be friends with and well-liked by everyone, except that they might not like cats. (Hah. That is the last time I will talk about her, my apologies. It’s hard to get over someone I used to love.) Also, sociable people like to meet lots of people. Obviously. (They might also prefer dogs over cats.) I think they like to build their connections and have these ultra self-empowering goals, which I don’t want to find out because it’s none of my business. Or maybe they are born to be Mr and Ms Congeniality’s. Like when they were barely a year old, they smiled at the camera, at dogs and even at that suspicious brown mound on the ground that looks like cat turd. No, I am not kidding. It’s fun to be with this group of people.👌🏻

I don’t like large crowds and the Barbie and Ken dolls of the world. (Read: superficial.) I choose my friends (and I like to think they chose me, as well). I choose people who I perceive to be smart and real. I like folks who don’t need everyone’s validation and I don’t like people who don’t choose sides. Yep, I don’t like the Swiss. (Except Toblerone, of course. Everybody loves them.) You gotta choose, buddy. So, are you a cat, or a dog person? 👊🏼

I like being around a small circle of friends. But there are times when I like to keep to myself and, even when I am with them, I like to wander inside my thoughts, thinking that I am somewhere else doing something else. Most of the time, I imagine sitting on a rocking chair, reading a nice book, with a cat on my lap. Yep, I know it’s so Alessia Cara singing ‘Here’. 


(Ooops that’s not Alessia. And I’ll pass on that headdress.)

If you think I am being arrogant just by writing all of these, be reminded that you can exit my site anytime, sweetie.

Of course, there were those times when I wished I was different. Don’t we all? I wished I was friendlier, funnier, easier to be with, less complicated and more free-spirited. But I like to think that I have come to terms with my individuality and that’s something because I don’t need to try hard. Really, the easiest thing ever, is to be yourself, to let others see the real you because it’s so hard to pretend. No hesitations, no holds barred, heck, no make-up or designer clothes. And no Camera360.

The first time I meet people, some seem to want to be friends with me (or am I just assuming things here? Please enlighten me) maybe because I am being funny when I talk about real stuff however bland or skin deep. Perhaps they would assume that I am bluffing or whatever and so a few weeks or days or months after, they would begin to think that I am bloody serious. A few would like me even more once they get to know me but most just wouldn’t know how to deal with this five foot zero inch shit and so they would walk away and this little shit wouldn’t care because that’s none of it’s business.

I like real talk. Man, I am plain honest and straightforward, sometimes you will think that I am sugarcoating my words or sometimes, I am dissing you straight in the face because that’s how I roll. Okay, sometimes I do filter my words just a wee bit the way I use a few photo filters to play with the light on my photos but I would tell you exactly what I need you to understand the way I would show you the zits and blemishes on my face because that’s how I roll. I believe in speaking out to make a difference to the world (yep, the world) so don’t be bloody sensitive when I speak the truth and I know it hurts the most but let’s just get real and get it over with.

Okay. You can stop right there and let’s breath real deep together.

One of my work counsellors told me that I am one of the realest, bravest and strongest people she knew and she said that was good because I knew what I wanted. My principles are intact, which means that I am hard to be influenced by other people who are on the other side of my fence. She said these are the makings of a good leader.

She didn’t tell me about the other side of the pancake, though. You know, the burnt one. I know that she knows that I already know. I know I can be complicated sometimes or perhaps, most of the time. I can break things up before you can say sushi. If you know what I mean. This other side might stop me from getting what I want, or even deserve. It might not get me up through the corporate ladder, might not get me the likes and hearts in social media. But you know what? I don’t need those types of validation from others who don’t matter much in my life. No one shouldn’t.

But we have our differences and while I think that no one shouldn’t want, shouldn’t work so fcuknig hard, shouldn’t be so fcuknig desperate to receive other’s validation and acceptance, some people just don’t think the way I do and it doesn’t mean that I am right and they are wrong. It could be the other way around and, who knows, both.

*First photo is not mine, I just found it in Tumblr. Whoever owns it, please let me know so I can give proper credits.

The second one was taken from

The third one is my son’s photo. Lol. Texts on photos are mine.


Cat Ladies are Not Crazy

I don’t mind getting pigeonholed into the crazy cat lady stereotype. So what if people are not amused with my cat stories and my cats. These furry felines are pretty cute, much cuter than most people I know anyway so that fact alone should suffice.

So, when exactly do you call a lady a cat lady?
I asked Herson and he said, a cat lady is a spinster who takes care of a cat/cats (not necessarily a cat hoarder) the way she would treat her own child.

I am not a spinster. Too young for that. I call my cats my babies though.. says a cat lady is a single woman who owns many pet cats. It also states that cat ladies have been associated with “romance-challenged (often career-oriented) women”.

I have Herson and the two kittens. I am not even career-oriented.

On the street where I live, there’s this lady who feeds all of the cats in the neighborhood. I see her do this at dusk or early in the evening, when I am on my way to work (I work nights). She looks old, perhaps in her 70’s or 80’s, wears long dresses that reach past the ankles. She beckons the cats, “Miyaw,” with her baritone voice and feeds them out of a plastic bag full of cat food that she carries on her right hand.

That, I believe, is the very definition of a cat lady. I wouldn’t be surprised if I learn that she has dozens of cats in her home.

According to Wikipedia, a cat lady may also be an animal hoarder who keeps a large number of cats without having the ability to properly house or care for them.

I only have two cats, two adorable white felines with black spots on their back. I post photos of them on my Facebook and Instagram every now and then.. Okaaaay, I sometimes post like five photos/videos a day, no, not everyday. I ask Herson if he thinks I am posting too much. He says no at first with that knowing smile on his face so I ask him again and he says yes, you post quite a lot, while assuring me that no I don’t have to stop posting just because. Does that make me a cat lady? I don’t know. He says no but I am not quite convinced. Oh, well, it’s not the worst thing in the world, what with wars going on in the Middle East and hunger and terrorism and the refugee situation in Europe and singlehood in your late 20’s and China bullying its way into my country’s disputed islands. No, it’s not the worst. And I really don’t mind.

There’s only one instance (I think) that pretty much suggests that I am a cat lady. It was when I thought of buying a car for the sole purpose of bringing my cats with me during travel, so that they won’t be left on their own. They matter that much. 😹

But please I am not a cat lady. Not yet anyway. I would never put my cats ahead of my family. I may humanize them from time to time, feed them fancy cat food and peach-mango pie, but they still are these furry, selfish creatures who don’t really give a shit about everything that’s going on with the world as long as they get enough feedings in one day. As long as they have someplace comfortable to sleep. As long as they have their humans to pet them whenever they want to. And I really don’t mind. I can be selfish too and I sure love burying my nose on my cat’s soft, warm belly whenever I want to. It’s worth the trouble of hand-scooping their poo (with a plastic bag, of course) from the litter box. Worth the abandoned fancy scratching post, the money spent on fancy cat food and litter. Worth the ruined clothes or shoes or books and cardboard boxes and broken coffee mugs.

One thing I learned about being a hands-on cat owner is that, although mostly independent, cats don’t want to shit on their litter boxes until you clean after their last dump. No kidding. It is also true that cats nearing adulthood become very picky with food, become lazy and take more naps and cuddles.

While I am writing this in bed, my Panda walks (that mega slow walk) towards me and squeezed himself between me and Herson, purring loudly like an old fridge: a clear indication that he is hungry. He starts nibbling on my little finger and rubbing his cheek on my hand. I stroke his head, his back, his spine, his fluffy fur. I touch his delicate belly and feel his heart beating. He continues to purr. This.

You know what, I really don’t mind being called a cat lady at all.


I like the sound of raindrops outside the window, pattering on the roof. I like the cold. On days like this, I like to think that I am one of those people who think that their sole purpose in life is to find that one person, their soulmate, their one and only, their better half..
I like hearing the purr of my cat, its’ soft and warm body against my left rib cage. Outside, it’s cold, the floor is cold. The cat– he likes being cuddled when it’s cold. And on days like these, I don’t like to sleep alone, because who does?
I like your arm circling my waist. I like the sound of your breath when you are asleep. I like the feel of your breath against my nape. I turn around and kiss your lips and you are asleep.
No matter how much I have wanted to eliminate the idea that I am a hopeless romantic, I must admit that a couple of genes are stamped with that label. Yes, I have wrote about that before, and I will write about it again. I am a hopeless romantic. I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore but this I am certain of– I believe in love. Of course I do. That’s why I am in love with you.
This is what I have always imagined my life would be– lying in bed with my cat and the man I love..