I would just like to say that, however good the idea might seem, writing while drinking is not something one should do often, because of results like this. Also, I think this topic was ridiculous. That is all.
I wish I were more like a cat. Who doesn't want to be a cat? Cats are sexy. Cats are cool. They slink. They strut. They sashay. Seriously--how many animals can sashay? Cats can pull it off, and make it look damn good, too. Cats preen like the starlit girls sitting at the end of the bar, checking their shiny lips in little jeweled compacts and not caring who sees it. Nothing fazes a cat; they watch the world with eyes that have seen ages, brief and bright like dancing flames, snuffed out by the first stiff breeze. Cats are all muscle, though they look soft and smooth as liquid glass. They fight for what they want, cutting claws and flashing fangs, leaving sometimes losing blood, but always sure that every battle matters and neither side is left unmarked. And with such grace, such boldness, daring, charisma, beauty--who doesn't want to be a cat?
I, however, am more of a turtle. From their birth, turtles are soft and dull and wrinkled. Their babies are born so much older than they are. Turtles develop their shells early in life. Each turtle's shell is unique, like fingerprints, their singularity forming a barrier between their soft skin and the surrounding world, even from other turtles. This is home, solitude, a place where the turtle can retreat into himself whenever he feels the need. Turtles are careful that way. They seem to know, instinctively, when danger is near. it is this intuition that lets them grow older than most animals, even when domesticated. It is this instinct they must learn to listen to. Turtles are humble animals; when mother sea turtles crawl ashore to lay their eggs, you can see the ditch from where their stomach drags the ground. Turtles love like this: deeply, protectively, wrapping unborn children in sand and shell--almost smothering, but not. Mother turtles will then return to the flow of the ocean and wait, with all the confident patience of true wisdom, for her babies to join her. She worries, I'm sure, for the ones she knows won't return to the sea she is replenishing with hot salt tears. But she knows she cannot always save them all, has learned this lesson from her mother, the hard way, as her children will learn, will learn to be careful, learn to love, learn to live and to grow into their ancientness, learn to be--just a little--like her.
I wish I were more like a cat. Who doesn't want to be a cat? Cats are sexy. Cats are cool. They slink. They strut. They sashay. Seriously--how many animals can sashay? Cats can pull it off, and make it look damn good, too. Cats preen like the starlit girls sitting at the end of the bar, checking their shiny lips in little jeweled compacts and not caring who sees it. Nothing fazes a cat; they watch the world with eyes that have seen ages, brief and bright like dancing flames, snuffed out by the first stiff breeze. Cats are all muscle, though they look soft and smooth as liquid glass. They fight for what they want, cutting claws and flashing fangs, leaving sometimes losing blood, but always sure that every battle matters and neither side is left unmarked. And with such grace, such boldness, daring, charisma, beauty--who doesn't want to be a cat?
I, however, am more of a turtle. From their birth, turtles are soft and dull and wrinkled. Their babies are born so much older than they are. Turtles develop their shells early in life. Each turtle's shell is unique, like fingerprints, their singularity forming a barrier between their soft skin and the surrounding world, even from other turtles. This is home, solitude, a place where the turtle can retreat into himself whenever he feels the need. Turtles are careful that way. They seem to know, instinctively, when danger is near. it is this intuition that lets them grow older than most animals, even when domesticated. It is this instinct they must learn to listen to. Turtles are humble animals; when mother sea turtles crawl ashore to lay their eggs, you can see the ditch from where their stomach drags the ground. Turtles love like this: deeply, protectively, wrapping unborn children in sand and shell--almost smothering, but not. Mother turtles will then return to the flow of the ocean and wait, with all the confident patience of true wisdom, for her babies to join her. She worries, I'm sure, for the ones she knows won't return to the sea she is replenishing with hot salt tears. But she knows she cannot always save them all, has learned this lesson from her mother, the hard way, as her children will learn, will learn to be careful, learn to love, learn to live and to grow into their ancientness, learn to be--just a little--like her.