Cats are the lap-dancers of the animal world. Soon as you stop shelling out, they move on, find another lap. They're furry little sociopaths. Pretty and slick -- in love with themselves. When's the last time you saw a seeing-eye cat?
The phrase “The cat’s out of the bag” tells that a secret’s been exposed to the world. But who put the secret, or cat, in the bag in the first place? I thought only kidnap victims were supposed to be kept in bags.
Since you and Crispin are now finished and I have a few hours to kill, how about that shag?” he asked with heavy irony.“Bite me,” I sighed, gathering up the pages.He winked. “Of course. My second-favorite thing to do in bed.
...cursing my heels and debating whether it was faster to stop and take them off--damn ankle straps!--or keep running with the potential neck breakers. Wouldn’t that make a charming epitaph? Here lies Cat. Killed not by fang, but Ferragamos.
Curiosity killed the cat,” Fesgao remarked, his dark eyes unreadable.Aly rolled her eyes. Why did everyone say that to her? “People always forget the rest of the saying,” she complained. “‘And satisfaction brought it back.
Christ girl, Ι wasn't even going to bite you. Well, not the way you're thinking." "I'm flattered you want to fuck me as well as muder me. Really, Liam, that's sweet." He grinned. "Valentine's Day was just last month, after all.
He gave the body a final kick and then turned to face me.“You and I need to talk, Kitten.”“Now?” I asked in disbelief, gesturing to the dead vampire near his feet.“It’s not like he’s going anywhere, so yeah. Now.
My cat likes to wake me up by licking my armpit. Never before have I had such a romantic alarm clock. It’s true, man, I should have been born Harry Truman. He could have been a memorable deodorant salesman, if he weren’t such a forgettable President.
Do you know what you’ve done?” I asked in a bland tone. Annette gave mean inquiring look. “You’ve gotten on my last nerve.”The table went crashing into her before she could blink, and then my fist found a home inher perfectly arranged hair.
I have a list of pet names for Cap’n so long that it could fill a phone book (if the phone book is for a town with a population of four). I call him Cap’n Boy, Sweet Boyo, My Little Boy (done in a British accent), and when he is misbehaving, You Little Shit.
Back on the ferry, I sip some vodka on the rocks and have a chat with God.Me: (desperately) What the *&%$# am I going to do?God:Me: (surprised) Really? After all those Sundays of being a back up singer for Jesus, you got nothing to say?God:Me: (humbly) Help me out here.
I wanted to make her a greeting card, but as far as I got was folding the paper in half. I left it blank inside, so she’d know how much I love her. I never mailed it, because my tongue was too dry to lick the envelope closed, and my cat was too busy bathing to help out.
Spartacus," I called, "how's it hanging?" Probably not too well. Once you're dead, had your organs removed, and are resurrected as an undead mummified cat, your testicles probably looked like old raisins that had rolled under the couch. Raisins didn't tend to...hang.
Maybe I was worrying for nothing. Maybe it had just been casual for him, and I wouldn't even have to tell him it couldn't happen again. After all, the man was a couple hundred years older than me and a former gigolo. I certainly hadn't robbed him of his virginity.
Maybe it's been like that for you till now. But you're not a kid anymore. You have the right to choose your own life. You can start again. If you want a cat, all you have to do is choose a life in which you can have a cat. It's simple. It's your right... right?
