When I took my Gandalf in off the streets, the colony-carer had been calling him “Sammy.” Nope, not a Sammy, he’s a sturdy gray boy (with some PTSD). Hence, Gandalf.
My Angel was an elderly lady’s caregiver-kitty, and for once I didn’t change a new cat’s name. She truly is an Angel . . . if a bit skittery.
When I was a child, I hated my name. I was named after a grandmother, so the name was popular at the turn of the last century, and unheard-of by the time I came around. I’ve since reconciled myself to it because I’ve made it my own and built my own small reputation with it.
However, in the interim, my name has come back into vogue . . . with multiple different spellings, and I have to explain to people that no, I don’t spell it the way they insist it should be spelled. Really. Truly. Once I even had to retort to someone who wouldn’t let the topic drop, “Oh, I’ll go change my birth certificate to meet your expectations. And I’ll go back and legally change my grandmother’s name to meet your expectations.” (Not that that’s possible, but for an interlocutor of that mentality, it wasn’t impossible . . .)
No, the Republicans don’t read these . . . they stay within their own bubbles.
“Were there people then?”
It took humans a loooong time to get the concept of zero . . .
oops I have two cats . . .
I’m just amazed that Burt can get the chyron on the inset not-a-photo.
Many people only use their heads as hat-racks.
Be the void . . .
Maybe a little “overdone”