Ew I don't like rainbow sherbet
Journal on depression/anxiety
Currently trying to figure out WTF to eat (for IBS-C).
Ooh, do mine! Do my chakras!
But never fear, you have eight levels of aura instead of seven to offset this damage. You are a very old and wise soul, and the eighth level of aura is a lovely deep blue with twinkles in it. Your spiritual guide is actually a spiritual follower, here to learn from you. HeatherJ, YOU are the guide.
All of us should descend on this place for its next Reading Night in a few weeks!!! Buy your plane ticket to Gay Panda's West Coast Magical Bamboo Forest, and we'll load into my car and head over.
You should set up a table just outside the entrance to the Reading Night....offer half price readings as people are going in.
yeah you are
Over the next 90 minutes, I want to show you that all of your problems can be solved with my penis.
DAY THIRTEEN OF GAY PANDA'S 30-DAY CHALLENGE
A: Read. Oh, this loathsome book. I'm almost halfway through. Remember when your English teacher told you to SHOW not TELL? Well, this writer never received that lesson. CHECK.
B: Exercise. Not today.
C: Agents. CHECK.
D: Floss. Absolutely revolting. CHECK.
PART ONE: I have survived four generations of Primal Coach Kitty’s feline family.
The Perpetually Arguing Panda Parents were backyard breeders. Lest you think Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS suddenly became X-rated, be reassured. They bred champion cats and kept them in cages behind the house. All day and night for ten years, I listened to yowling and felt sorry for them and their cooped-up, pathetic lives. Never trust the pictures that a breeder posts on his or her website of kittens or puppies frolicking through the grass. Most* of the time, in my experience, they came from a cage to the grass only for the photo, and once it was clicked, were returned to a cage.
When one is trying for a show champion, one is not breeding for intelligence. One wants the right chin, ears, coat, length of tail and shape of eyes. It’s a bonus if they have the right temperament for the show hall, but that is not as high on the list. Coming in dead last is IQ. Breeding cats that are too closely related for more than one or two generations and you end up with pretty idiots who win a lot of ribbons but can’t find their own food bowls from day to day.
I was a cub when I had Primal Coach Kitty’s great-grandmother. She was a breeder, producing show quality kittens. A friendly tabby, her quirks mostly skated within the realm of normal. There were only two habits that were truly bizarre. One was that she played tennis. On Thanksgiving for many years, pitying the cats for being out there, I would steal turkey and slip it to them after the meal had concluded. The other cats just ate it and begged for more. This one would lift the piece of breast meat into her mouth and then snap her head back, tossing it to the other side of her cage. Bolting into action, she would dart to the other side of the cage, pick up the meat again, and throw it back. Back and forth, back and forth, and I would alternately cheer her on and beg her just to eat the damn thing.
On the occasions that she was inside, she had a love of the recliner. She did not want to rest upon the arm or seat, or the crest like some cats do, but within it. As soon as anyone put up the footrest, she would slink inside and fall asleep. In time, the footrest would be put down, and she would wake and find herself in a dark prison. The recliner would meow until Young Gay Panda came to the rescue.
One of her daughters was Primal Coach Kitty’s grandmother. Prettier than her mother, she had half the IQ. She was also breed quality, so when she was pregnant, she would live in the house. She preferred the game of tag. I was in high school when she came along, and I would thunder through the house after her as she yowled happily, and then she would turn and chase me back. I’d jump onto my bed and she’d dart underneath it, and we would pant heavily, and then she would slink back out and give me a challenging side-eye to start again.
But oh, she was dumb. She’d sit on my lap and we’d do the Macarena or YMCA, and she’d complain until I put her down, and then she’d want to come back up and do it again. She drooled continuously and was always shaking her head, sending spit in a 360-degree arc. Her sense of direction and memory were miserable, and every day was a new adventure in finding her food and litter box. Was it there last time? Was there a last time? Where was she? Oh! CHASE! Sometimes I would find her stuck to screen doors looking helpless, or glaring at nothing in corners. And she snored like a buzz saw, claiming my pillow for her own. I saved up some money from tips and had her Stealth Spayed when I was in college because I was sick of kittens and cages, and after I moved out of my cubhood home, I took her with me.