catty.

People who know me really well know that I so do not like cats. I used to have nightmares as a kid that they were scratching me all over. I once dreamt that a tiger was attacking me and I screamed loud enough for my dad to come running down the hallway to my room.

Recently, though, I found myself talking to somebody and it came out that I can be, when introduced, catty. Not catty in the Mean Girls sense (though heaven knows all girls can be that way, present company included)--catty in the...nangingilala sense. In the I-will-look-at-you-first, maybe-sniff-and-slink-and-then-smile sense.

It bothered me. It still does. I don't want to be catty. I want to be the yellow labrador-like, oh-can-I-take-you-home-you-pretty-baby-who-let-me-carry-you-instantly type. I've always thought of myself as such.

So I asked two people who know me really well--my beloved sistah and my beloved boyfriend--if I am catty on Day One.

And they both said yes!
Harumph. Can I help it if I'm nearsighted?

I guess I'll have to meet somebody new to try my Yellow Lab Self.

* * *

In other news.

I had an existential itch I had to scratch last week, so I found myself walking to the kanto parlor and saying, "Please cut my hair." I said till my shoulder, she got amnesia and cut it till just below my chin. So now I have invested in 50,000 bobby pins and look like I did in college--only now, at least, I didn't cut my own hair in the Gonzaga bathroom.

Grow, I command you. Grow.