Mom: I'm getting old and weak.
Me: You don't look it.
Mom: I'm about to hit 60. I'd like to retire.
Me: Then retire.
Mom: I'd like you to have the building, the lot, the family business.
Me: But I don't want them anymore.
Mom: But what else is there?
Me: I've made my decision long ago--quit business school--and you conceded.
Mom: What would become of you then?
Me: I would like to be a bum.
Mom: You would like to be a what?
Me: A bum.
Mom: Santamaria. And how would you survive?
Me: I don't know yet.
Mom: You don't know... yet.
Me: I can write somewhat, you know. I'm not totally useless.
Mom: And I will continue working til I die?
Me: Then sell everything and live free. You have all the money you'll ever need.
Mom: But the business is my life. It's all I've ever known.
Me: Then work, if that makes you happy. (We'll just sell everything after you die.XD)
Mom: And this is how you repay me?
Me: I can't see how is that my problem.

Stumbled upon a white filthy kitten in school today. It looked like it was born in the sewers, was filled with flees and worms, was petrified, hungry, lonely, lost. I wanted to adopt it, de-worm it, de-flee it, feed it, play with it, nurture it, take care of it, teach it sudoku. But I didn't have anything to put it in, save for my bag, which was filled with texts by George Orwell, Marx, and Shakespeare, revolutionary giants who shook millions of people from torpor. It was a life-changing decision. Kitten or books? Life or art? Love or revolution? I could get another set of books; I could get another cat. Besides, I'll suffocate and crush the poor little bugger if I toss it in my bag. Then again, what's the use? I don't care. So. I let it be. Walked past it. Erased it from my memory. Strangulated it. Murdered it. Buried it in my unconscious.

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