Cat’s Run Away, Part Four: Save Me


His name was Tarrant, and the next day, he was heading to Indonesia for a trip. He was already late for his own going away party, as he had to pay a fine, but for some reason I couldn’t comprehend, he offered to drive me to the Underground.

“How blistered are your feet?” he asked.

I hadn’t had a look at my feet in a while, and now that I was sitting in his car, I could do so. Tarrant’s face screwed up at the sight. “How long were you walking barefoot again?” he winced.

To be honest, I didn’t think they looked too bad. Like, they weren’t mutilated and disgusting, merely filthy and tough from walking on rocky pavement for hours. The skin was almost black on my feet, but water would get that off.

Tarrant dropped something on my lap. “Buy some shoes, I’m begging you,” he said. “Before your feet are permanently ruined.”

“My feet were never lovely in the first place,” I told him. “Besides, the shops would be closed now, I wouldn’t be able to buy anything.”

“Well take it for my state of mind, alright?” said Tarrant. “Think of it this way; I would be relieved by the thought that you are at least wearing shoes on your way there, so take the money, and let me have that illusion.”

I hesitated, before finally accepting the money. “You see? I feel better already,” Tarrant said. “I can live with myself knowing I helped you.”

“I had never thought I’d see the day that someone would beg me to buy shoes,” I told him. “Normally it’s the other way around.”

He grinned. “Buy ugg boots,” he said.

I made a face. “Again, never thought I’d hear someone say that.”

Tarrant chuckled. “When you think about it, my actions are selfish, because I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t feel bad about not helping you, see. So its selfish of me that I’m helping you.”

“Well nothing is truly altruistic,” I pointed out. “Human beings are selfish by nature.”

“Silly human beings…” he rolled his eyes.

I giggled at that. “That’s usually what I say.”

“We think alike,” Tarrant said. “…that may not be a good thing.”

I rolled my eyes. Tarrant was nice, for a stranger. He was weird, and he thought about random things. He was practically my twin. :p

Tarrant left me at the Underground, after giving me his Facebook details so I could let him know that I was alive. I bought my ticket and got on the train, and I would’ve fallen asleep had Daniel not been there.

I managed to scramble off the train, with all my belongings in hand, and Daniel following me.

Oh, and I forgot to do a recount of thus far. Still barefoot, still homeless, still carrying iPad and books, still have five bucks, plus an additional forty from Tarrant.

“Why on Earth would he give you that much money?” Daniel asked. “Are you sure those notes aren’t laced with something?”

I was too busy braving the rocky ground to answer. “Ow, ow, ow, ow.”

“Never mind…” Daniel turned to me. “Where are we meant to go?”

Now, upon being told how I needed to catch the Chesire Train, the whole police station gasped. The Cheshire station, I was informed, was an incredibly seedy place. Not fun seedy, like my Uncle Slenderman, but bad seedy, as in Creepy Stalker Guy Seedy.

So my thoughts were wonderful after hearing this.

We walked for ten minutes, and Daniel and I were walking along the highway, looking for directions.

Then someone grabbed my shoulder.

I cried out and span around to see someone I knew very well.

He was a Delusion.

He was not Daniel.

And I hated him.

“What do you want?” I snarled.

Then I crumpled to the ground, hissing. My head was burning, and I was vaguely aware of him standing above me.

“Don’t you dare!” I heard Daniel screech. Suddenly, the pain vanished, and I was lying on the ground, disoriented.

When my sight came to, I took in the scene in front of me. Daniel was standing there, panting and in agony. “What happened?” I asked.

He grimaced. “It’s fine,” he murmured. “Perfectly fine.”

And then he fell to the ground.

Bad/Mad/Sick/Silly Cat.


This blog is called The Adventures of Cat Madigan for a reason; because Cat Madigan has ADVENTURES!

Well, aside from the ongoing saga Cat’s Run Away (yes, yes, I KNOW, I’m meant to be posting stuff, and I keep forgetting to write…), my adventures really only happen in my head. Aka, Delirium.

But I like to have adventures in Reality, even very minor ones. If I have adventures in Reality, I can stay in Reality more easily.

And I cannot have adventures if I am sick in bed.

Yes, Cat Madigan is sick. I cannot keep anything down, and for some reason, I keep trying to prove my body otherwise. My body’s response is always the same: “NO, Cat, I can’t eat right now, I’m busy keeping you alive and fighting the viruses, I can’t handle extra burdens! No, don’t put that PopTart in your mouth, noooooo, no! Bad Cat! Bad bad bad Cat! Okay…you asked for it….”

With barely enough energy to move, Daniel takes delight in making fun of me, and I often found myself falling into Delirium randomly. Almost as if I were falling asleep.

In Delirium, I can move, I can eat. I remember sitting on the edge of a river, lying in the tall grass that grew there, and dipping my toes in the warm water. And pulling my feet out before Daniel could spring out of the water and grab them and pull me in.

Those are the only times that I enjoy being in Delirium. Those times when it’s only Daniel who’s with me, and no one wants to hurt me, or burn me.

Speaking of burning…

I’m not sure how I knocked my bed light over. I had left it on, by accident, and I hadn’t the foggiest idea that I had done what I did.

Later, when I was Skyping with my dear ‘father’, who smugly told me he had half the day off from school, I smelt burning. It smelt like burning rubber, but I couldn’t tell where it was from. I nearly asked Papa Willis if he could smell something, before quickly realising that smells cannot be transmitted via iPad, not even on Skype.

Imagine what my supposed brother would be able to do if that technology was possible… Imagine what people would be able to do, period. Imagine getting an email and opening it, only to smell the fresh aroma of rotting eggs. Thank god for ethics…

When my mother came home, I was reassured that I wasn’t hallucinating, or whatever you call perceiving smells that weren’t there. Something was on fire.

I was checking the power points, when I saw a bright light on my mat.

Bright as a flame.

Well, it wasn’t a flame, because the heat was concentrated on one area. But still…

I thought that the worst of my problems was that it had burnt my rug.

Then I saw it had burnt through it, and had been starting on my carpet.

Mum merely shrugged, and said we’d need to replace the carpets anyway, when we moved out of the house, (that’s for another time though). When she left the room, I heard someone clapping slowly. “Shut up Daniel,” I said.

He chuckled.

As I sit here, starving, and craving whatever the heck is cooking at the moment, I’m thankful for one thing; that the smell of charcoaled rubber has finally left my room and I can breathe fresh air again.

I can hear what everyone else is doing, outside my bedroom. My mother is struggling to reactivate her long deactivated Facebook account. I have no idea why she’d want to, I didn’t even know she had friends that use Facebook. But as I, the Facebook and social media genius of the family, am out of action, she has resorted to employing my brother’s clumsy skills to do so. It’s amusing to watch, well, hear.

One moment.

It’s less funny now. My brother just asked me the surname of MJ, along with that of various other friends.

My mother’s going to now stalk me on Facebook.

Or at the very least, she’s going to stalk my friends.

This means war…

*Cranky Cat Mode Initiated*


Mad Cat. (And I’m crazy too!)

Cat’s Run Away, Part Three: Cats and Rabbits


It was 7 in the evening. At least I think it was.

I was still lacking shoes.

I still had the $5 Frankie gave me.

I was still carrying my iPad and two books.

And Daniel and I had seen the first policemen all evening.

“Fudge fudge fudge fudge, expletive, curseword, son of a biscuit-” I grumbled, as I hobbled after the policemen on their bikes.

Fortunately, they stopped at the traffic lights, so I only had to walk to catch up. Then I asked them how to get to the Mallymkum Police Station.

Of course, it happened to be the one night of the year where there were drunks and winos galore! With no one to spare, they could only direct me along Salazen Street, though their gazes lingered on my bare feet for a moment.

Fortunately, a guy who introduced himself as Rabbit (of course he didn’t, the world’s not completely mad) overheard this, and said he’d take me along to the police station. So we walked along, and we joked about, and Daniel was giving me foul looks.

Of course, the subject of why I was lacking shoes came up.

“So were you drunk or something?” Rabbit asked.

“Nope.” I thought for a moment before deciding to tell Rabbit. “Ran away. Didn’t have time to pick up shoes.”

“Ah. Bad boyfriend?” Rabbit asked. Daniel responded with the most poisonous look he could give him.

What? I mouthed to my delusion. He just turned his head away and ignored me. He’s even more sulky than me… “Nah, parents,” I told Rabbit.

“You still live with your parents?” Rabbit asked incredulously.

“Well, I did,” I responded. “I’m not 18 yet.”

“Get out!” he said.

I then realised the reason for Daniel’s foul mood. “Well how old did you think I was?”

“Old enough for me to buy you a drink.”

“I don’t drink anyways.”

“Too bad,” said Rabbit. “Well I’d better leave you now.”


“Look.” He pointed at the building in front of us.

I looked, and I saw the police station. “Thanks so much,” I breathed. After ages spent walking around the city barefoot, I could finally relax a little.

“It’s o’right,” said Rabbit. “Do me a favour though?”


“There’s a reason you left,” Rabbit said. “I’m…I’m not usually the one to pry, does that reason have to do with…bruises?”

“Not exactly,” I said slowly. He had taken me this far, but I wasn’t too sure how much I could trust Rabbit. And the last thing I wanted to do was burst into tears in front of him.

Rabbit gave me a wry smile. “Suit yourself. Well then, see you around, Cat. Well, actually, I hope I don’t see you around because the city’s a bad place at night…but take care of yourself, o’right?”

I grinned back at Rabbit, and started up the stairs. As I reached the door, he called back up. “You’re not alone, you know.”

I quickly scanned around for Daniel. When I couldn’t see him, I turned back and told Rabbit, “I know”, even though I did not believe it one bit.

At the police station, the only other person there was a young man, waiting on a chair. “Where’s the police?” I asked warily.

“Just stand in front of the counter, they’ll turn up.”

He was right. About thirty seconds after, a police officer turned up, and asked if I needed help.

It was harder than it should’ve been, talking. How many times had I explained to people what had happened, why I was by myself, barefoot, penniless.

As soon as I opened my mouth, she said “Runaway?”

“How did…”

She indicated my bare feet.

“Ah. Right. Yeah.” I exhaled. “I need somewhere to go.”

She immediately gave me the phone for the crisis centre…who immediately put me on hold.

In the five minutes I was on hold, I listened to the other guy tell me about how he had to go down to the police station to pay a fine, and how he’d been waiting there for 2 hours, and was now late to his own going away party.

I was telling him that I was probably going to do the same when the phone finally picked up.

I could answer the questions off the top of my head. Are you pregnant? No. Are you suicidal? Borderline. Is there anyway you can go back home? No. Do you have anywhere to stay? No. Have you any money? No.

Was it alright if this call was transferred to Tinoca House, where they could give me shelter for a few nights? Yes please.


And then they put me on hold for ten minutes.

In that time, another woman entered the station. One who had been attacked by a bar owner. Overhearing my problem, she made it very very clear that she did not approve of my decision. Even when Tinoca picked up, she wouldn’t stop talking.

I went through the questions again. Pregnant, no. Under the influence, no. Anywhere to go, no. After the endless questions, I was told that they could accommodate me.

There was just one problem.

This Tinoca house was about half an hours drive away from Mallymkum. I had zero money for a taxi, and because it was grand final night, there were no police cars available to take me.

I looked at the clock. It was 9:45. Already it was dark.

I felt sorry for the police officer who told me that I had some more walking to do. He uncomfortably told me that there was a train I could take, but there wasn’t anything else he could do.

It was then that the guy, who had finally paid his fine, offered to take me to the train station, and spare my poor blistered feet. I accepted.

Off we went again…

Something Different


Last night, I started to make a list.

Yes, it is sort of mean.

At the very least it is certainly not politically correct.

I name this list…Names of Stereotypical Bimbos.

These names, when you hear them, can often be associated with women wearing pink lipstick and very small tops, which barely cover enormous…enhancements. Enhancements which compensate for what is in these women’s heads.

Alright, now shut up! Yes, this is definitely not a nice thing to write, but I’m not really a nice person, now am I? And think of all the bimbos you see on TV. Or even people you may know in real life.

Fine…mainly TV.

The point is, there’s so many names which, like it or not, we automatically link with these people on television, who are often the unsuspecting prey to the serial womaniser. Yes, I’m looking at you Barney Stinson.

Now as a beforehand, yes, you non-existent readers may have these names. And you may be geniuses with IQ’s double my own. Like I said, this list is far from being politically correct. So please, if you don’t like this sort of thing, DO NOT READ IT. It’s only for a bit of a laugh, for horrible people like me. And if you do decide to read this, despite being against stereotypes, it is not my fault if you are offended by this list.

Do we understand, imaginary readers, who are nice and lovely and pure?

…Or at least readers who are offended by stereotypes of pretty bimbos?

Alright, now stop reading.

For the rest of you…

Now, here’s an example of how mean I can be.

Behold…The Names of Stereotypical Bimbos List.

Or by it’s alternate title, What Not To Call Your Daughter. And no, I cannot be more creative than that.


Candy. Or Kandy. Or worse, Kandi. Or even worse, the dreaded double i…. Kandii. *shudder*

Crystal. Or Krystal. Seriously, who thought it would be a good idea to put in a K instead of a C in Crystal? It makes it even more tacky.

Amber. Personally, I don’t know what’s wrong with Amber, but my mother apparently skipped the name when naming me, because it sounded like a stripper’s name.

Barbie. I always hated Barbie as a kid. She always seemed too goody goody to be an actual human being. So whenever I hear the name on another person, I end up associating them with the stupid doll. I’m a horrible person…but seriously, why would you name your daughter after the iconic doll? You’re putting them through years of PAIN!!

Bambi. Or Bambii, (ewwwwwwww). The name belongs to an adorable little deer, who is incredibly innocent. Of course, this name is suitable when your baby is an adorable little girl, with big innocent eyes. But it’s pretty tacky on a grown woman.

Skipper. Wasn’t that Barbie’s little sister or something? Whatever. I always felt that Skipper sounded like the daughter that lived in her sisters shadow, and would probably go into the sex, drugs and alcohol scene as she strove to make her own image. Nuff said.


Or anything that ends with the sound “eek”.

Kelly. Or Kelli. Double i doesn’t look like it would work here, so I’ll just stick with Kelli. But for some reason, I cannot take the name Kelly/Kelli seriously. It sounds like the name of a little girl, not really one for a grown woman.

Honey. Yes, How I Met Your Mother may have influenced this a bit, but when you think about it, yeah, it does sort of fit.

Tiffany. Or, its evil twins, Tiffani and Tiffanii.

Brittany, Brittani and Brittanii.

Cindy, Cindi and Cindii. Again, names which belong to a little girl, and not a grown woman.

Hayley or Haylee.

Paris. And for the record, this name would’ve never been on the list if it hadn’t been for the infamous Hilton. A name that once suggested culture and sophistication now implies sex tape and spoilt rich girlness.

Lexi. Rhymes with sexy. And that’s the first thing that comes to mind when one hears that name. Doesn’t matter if you’re a physicist or an engineer; Lexi will always be associated with sexy.

Diamond. Or worse, Diamond spelt incorrectly. Aka. Diammond, Dyamond, etc.

Sky or Skye.

Nicky, Nicki, Nikki (ulgh….)



Chloe, or worse, Khloe.


Stacey, or Stacee.

Baby. Although, I cannot imagine anyone naming their child Baby. Nickname, maybe. Actual name, no. Unless they happened to be on crack when writing down the name of the birth certificate.

Casey, or Kasey.

Kelsy, Kelsie, Kelsi.

Sally, Sallie or Salli.

Sandy. Though fortunately, it can be lengthened to Sandra, so they don’t have to face the embarrassment in the workplace.

Charity. Slutty girl who’s only thoughts involve makeup and hair, and her name is Charity. Walking contradiction!

Hope. Ditto.

Faith. Again, ditto.

Just about any adjective which is used as a name!

So that concludes my Bimbo Name List.

Yes, I know. I am a horrible person. My mother tells me this daily, so don’t bother reminding me. I warned you, non existent reader.

One thing I’ve noticed about these names is that the majority of them are incredibly cutesy. They’re more often nicknames for a little girl, rather than actual names. Parents might give these names to their little baby girls, and because they are babies and they’re adorable, it’s acceptable.

But the thing is, these babies get older. And they grow into independent women, who will come to despise the name Bambi or Sally or whatever name you gave them when they start working in industries where little girl names are unquestionably laughable. It may even start earlier. Or they’ll choose to stay a little girl. Mentally anyway. I mean, the alternative is to get picked on in the workplace, so why go into one then? Why not just remain a pretty little girl?

So. Two options then; the eternal hate of your daughter, or at the very least, the fact that your daughter will never hit her full potential.

Oh, and lets not forget about the dreaded ‘double i’s’. Or even just names with an i instead of a y at the end. And let’s not forget names that are horribly misspelt. That’s right Krystal/Kristal. And you two aren’t the only culprits. It’s like people seem to think that changing the letters of a word makes it a creative name. Kristal is not a creative name.

…I sound like that notepad on Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared.

Then again, I am being incredibly bigoted at the moment. Everything I have mentioned thus far are stereotypes. It’s not just girls called Candy who become bimbos, and at the same time, people who are called Candy can achieve great things. Though to be fair, these stereotypes have to come from somewhere…

Oh dear…

So for those non existent readers who don’t hate my guts at the moment, here’s Question of the Day.

Actual, two Questions of the Day.

For those kind souls out there, here’s this one: What names do you hate? I think all of you non existent readers have met at least one person who’s name you can’t stand. Or maybe you hate a name because of a certain person. Tell me about it!

For those people who are horrible, like me, here’s your Question of the Day. Actually, it’s more of a challenge. Add more names to my Bimbo list! If I can do it, you can do it. C’mon guys, let’s get creative!!!

Wait, nononononononono….

Anyway, being horrible is tiring, so I shall go now.

Also, Part Three of Cat Runs Away is coming out tomorrow, so stay tuned, for the adventures of a horrible person.

Mad Cat.



Forgive me, my oh so forgiving non existent readers. Guess who’s iPad has been confiscated once more?

My mother took it while I was in the shower, and gave no hint that she was going to do so when she did it.

I am still able to use the home computer, but it is out in the open, for my family to see. And obviously, my parents would definitely not approve of some of my writings. And I haven’t even started talking about sex…yet.

The point of this is to let you know that I am still alive. I have not yet killed myself, and I have not abandoned writing. But I’ve got lots of stuff going on, including plans for a story that I might make into another blog. So I’m unable to always post on here, like I did at school.

Stay tuned imaginary fans, I’m not dead yet.

Cat Madigan

Cat’s Run Away, Part Two: Emotionless


Last time, on Cat’s Run Away.

A culmination of events, beginning with the homeless man on the bus, and ending in my mother’s plan to put me in chains, resulted in me running away.

So one hour into my runaway plan, this is a general overview of my situation.

To prevent my mother and brother getting their paws on my iPad, I had taken it with me, along with two books I had been reading at the time.

I had been locked out of the house at the time, so I was unable to get a jacket, or anything warm.

The cat brush, which I had used to attack my brother with, was now in my pocket. For some reason I cannot contribute to anything but absentmindedness and potential insanity.

I had $0 in my possession. Meaning the only way to get to the city was on foot.

Speaking of which…

As I said before, the only things I had with me were the ones I had taken with me in the morning. And…I sort of didn’t put on shoes this morning.

So I was kind of barefoot.

I am so intelligent. And Daniel had the grace to point it out to me.

“Why, the HELL didn’t you put on shoes, you DENSE Mother-”


A lot of people gave me weird looks from that. After all, I just punched what was probably thin air. But I felt better. It’s all the satisfaction of punching a normal person, without the complications of a sore hand.

Either way, he shut up afterwards. Well, until I came to the park.

“Now what are you going to do?” he asked me. “It’s either prickles or gravel. Take your pick Cat.”

“Wait,” I stopped him. “Where are we, first off?”

Daniel stopped walking. “That Cat,” he said slowly. “Is a very good question.”

“Thanks for the compliment, now where are we?

“…I wouldn’t know.”


The following consisted of a long course of swear words. Ones which are too creative for little eyes to see. Yes I’m referring to you Batman. You are classified as ‘little’.

But back to the story! 127 creative curse words later…

“Why didn’t we just follow the bus route that you take to school?” Daniel asked.

“Because if my parents drove down that way, they’d see me walking,” I said. “The plan was to walk a street down from the bus route. The same basic path to the city, just… sans recognisable landmarks.”

“Ask someone where Wonderland road is,” he suggested.

(And yes, I’m changing the streets and names of cities and stuff. Because I need to be more creative and discreet with the places I mention. Plus I love Alice in Wonderland, so this is where I’m going to live.)

So I went up to a car and asked the person in it.

And things turned out better than expected.

The guy, who I’m going to call Frankie, worked with runaways, and offered to drop me off in the city. Of course, he only did that after I told him I was going to stay with friends.

Truth was, I had no idea what I was going to do.

But anyway, Frankie dropped me off in the city. And gave me $5 so I could catch the train to wherever I needed to go.

So I got to Gumboot Station. And I trekked to where I could use the WiFi.

I managed to get in contact with members of my ‘family’, and let them know where I was. Sadly, I wasn’t able to stay with any of them.

So, I prepared myself for the possibility that I was going to sleep on the street.

Surprisingly, this did not terrify me. Were my emotions really that messed up?

I was almost shocked to feel that the normal fears that people talked about when they ran away didn’t come to me. Rape? I didn’t care. Murder? Go ahead. Torture? Meh. None of these potential scenarios made me feel anything.

But I soon discovered that I could still feel other things.

For example, when I came across a gentleman who directed me to the police station, I was suddenly filled with hope. And I realised that I really didn’t want to sleep on the street. But I still had no intention of going back home.

Thus began my journey to the police station.

About an hour later…



“The Snug Street police station’s closed…”

“I realised that, Daniel.”

“Now whaaaaat?”


It was about half an hour before Daniel showed up again. In that time, I met up with a taxi driver, who decided to drive me to the police station. Eventually I realised he thought I had been raped, and I needed to report it. I must’ve looked worse than I thought… He was visibly relieved when I told him, and he gave me his card in case I needed him again.

He dropped me off about a street from the police station, and drove off. It was then that I realised something.

This was the police station on Snug Street.


So I focused on finding a landmark, like a hotel or somewhere. A place I could get directions.

Then someone showed up. Not Daniel, but something worse.

Creepy Stalker Guy.

A man who was walking far too close to me, and kept calling me ‘Baby’.

Ohhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiii-

I walked along about a hundred metres, Creepy Stalker Guy close on my heels. As I sped up my pace, I just kept thinking the same thing over and over again.

Shit. I’m going to be raped. Then I’ll be murdered. And then my friends will kill me. Somehow.

Then I saw the light of an open building. And my pessimistic monologue was replaced with one word.


I dived inside the building, not caring what the Creepy Stalker Guy thought. I hid in a corner, surrounded by people, until I found it safe to come out.

And I ran into Daniel.

And I just burst into tears.

Daniel just stood there and put his arms around me. He didn’t need to say anything.

Then everyone came and surrounded me, asking for my permission to help me.

No one could drive me to the police station. It was late, and all the winos were out on Snug Street. But there was another police station at Mallymkum Road. One that was certainly open.

I was then escorted through the maze of winos to a safer place. I saw no sign of Creepy Stalker Man, and when I reached the somewhat civilised city life, I let myself believe I wasn’t going to see him again.

My escort left, and Daniel and I were left to navigate the rest of the city by ourselves.



There is nothing wrong with your computer screen. Do not make any attempt to readjust your picture.

We at The Adventures of Cat Madigan would like to interrupt the current series Cat’s Run Away, to bring to you another DP Challenge!

What’s that? You want to hear more about how I’m a horrible person and how I ran away from home? Tough biscuits, nonexistent complainer.

There are times where I feel like I have nothing in common with my family. I’m like a black sheep, only I’m a Cat. I’m the Black Cat of my family! How creative of me.

So who do I see when I look at myself?

My horrible fair skin belongs to my father. Yes, fair skin is lovely to have…when it doesn’t go bright red all the time. And then there’s the freckles. Freckles are evil, there’s no point in having freckles, they provide nothing whatsoever, except something for your grandmother to remark on when she analyses you.

But I have received my hair from my father. It’s the one part of me that I actually like. Long, thick curls which now reach down to the middle of my spine. They’re dark at the moment, but in its natural state, my hair is light brown, with sun streaks all over. It’s pretty in the sun. If only they didn’t straighten it all the time at modelling…

And I have my mother to thank for my cheekbones. Oh, and my fat ass. Thanks to my mother, it is my fate to have an ass larger than Australia. And from what I’ve seen of my mother, it’s bound to bring around constant depression induced debates over whether or not to get liposuction to remove said fat from ass. So thank you mother.

Then I look in the mirror again and realise that there’s really not that much I can see that I’ve inherited from my parents. Not physically anyways. But I can see resemblances to my grandparents. I’ve got two of each still, lucky me.

Nose is my Grandma’s. And thank goodness for that. The alternative would’ve been the infamous nose of my paternal grandparents, a large hooked thing which you always see first. But I’ve (thankfully) inherited the small, upturned one instead. I’ve spent many an hour at family Christmas parties, thanking God that I avoided receiving dad’s nose.

Lips are my Grandpa’s I think, because I can’t see them resembling either my mother’s or father’s. My bottom one is fuller than my top one, even though both my parents have thin lips. By the smallest of chances, I escaped having thin old lady lips. Thanks grandpa. But I think that I also have the same body type as my grandfather. He and I are both very tall, like my father, but unlike my father, Grandpa and I are very lean. We’re like trees, and we both have very muscly legs; his from walking around the farm caring for horses, mine from walking and running all day in the city.

Then there’s emotional inheritances….

Personally, I think there’s no such thing. You get your personality from the way you’ve been raised. If you had been raised by two different people, you’d probably be more like them than your parents. Rather than ‘inheriting’ personality, it’s formed by the people who raise you.

So over the years, who have I become?

I’m very stubborn, that’s for certain. As you might have gathered from previous posts, I’m not happy when I don’t get my way. That’s probably thanks to both my mother and my father. But I don’t usually do something about it unless something is completely unfair. That’s when I do something mad, aka. Running away. But I don’t think my parents have ever ran away before. I must be the first person to have that sort of gene. Future generations are going to remember me as “Mad Grandma Cat” from now on. Yay…

I think I have more in common with my father than my mother, when I think about it. We aren’t easy to move, when we’re angry, we’re as cold as glaciers. We’re also very good at arguing our points, and we also have a love for historical fiction, or history in general. But our way of thinking is also the same. We think things through logically, rather than leaping to emotions first off. We’re quiet until you know us well, then we don’t shut up. And we don’t show our pain easily. I have never seen my father cry to this day, and I don’t expect him ever to.

Unlike personality, mental illnesses ARE something you can inherit. And I most likely have anxiety from my father, and depression from my mother. Hence why I am fucked up, imaginary ladies and gentlemen. My brain is addled with depression and anxiety. Plus hallucinations.

They say children are a reflection of their parents, so what exactly does that make me?

Whatever the case, I really hope my kids (imaginary or otherwise) don’t end up like me. I don’t want them to hurt too.

So if you’re interested, here’s the Daily Prompt Challenge! I’ll resume the saga of Cat’s run away next time. I think it’ll take up several posts, so keep reading non existent fans!

Mad Cat.