I’m pretty obsessed with cats, I’d say.
Like, obsessively-obsessed, to the point where the fact that my mom is allergic to cats is merely an afterthought, and I’ve become immune to her threats of kicking me out the house if I decide to bring home a cat one day.
That being said, SHE’s the one allergic to cuteness and furry balls of love, so the moment I leave home for college, I’ll most certainly find myself a companion. Cat lady? For sure. (Even Buzzfeed said I was a certified cat lady.) Perhaps I’m a bit excessive, since I told my mom I wanted 7 cats and 3 kids. (Those are my favorite numbers. Her response? Well, at least your favorite numbers aren’t 73 and 37.) But you know, when you’ve been deprived of your deepest dream and desire to cuddle and play with kittens for as long as I have, you tend to get a ~little~ crazy.
Now, that’s not to say that I don’t make up for my lack of real animals. I found these tiny yet very realistic-looking toy cats one day roaming the streets of China, and persuaded my mom to buy two to put in my room. And then another one when we walked past the store again, and then two more when we passed by the final time to go home. I may or may not have gotten strange looks from people staring at a 5’0″ teenager hauling a bag of toy cats.
I’m that one friend who, if you happen to have a cat at your house, will go visit you solely for the purpose of meeting your cat, that one guest who will ditch a dinner party to go play with the kitten, that one jogger who will stop and make faces at your kitten through the windows.
As for preferences, I like all cats–burmese, ragdoll, birman–but if I were to one day actually get a cat, I’d like a Maine coon. But that one day is going to be close, and even if I have to shower in a toolshed before I can enter my parents’ home, I’m going to be that not-half-as-crazy-about-other-things-than-about-cats cat lady. That isn’t too hard to imagine, eh?