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I’m 30 or something. I own two cats. My mom thinks this is the beginning of a tragedy.
“You’re getting old,” she says.
“You have no man, only fur babies.”
As if I’m supposed to start crying into the litter box.
But let me tell you something: I don’t chase men.
And on a lonely night?
It smells like freedom, good lighting, and better taste in partners.
It is romantic, mysterious, a little dramatic, just like me when I run into my ex at Walmart.