I picked out this shirt at the Animal Rescue Site for my cat-loving engineer friend to wear to the gym. On reflection, I got one in a smaller size for myself, vowing silently never to wear it at the same time; some things are just sickening.
I shop there a lot for gifts and garden doodads. Unlike a lot of charity shops, they stock merchandise that actually outdoes the market average in bang for the buck. Some time back I made them my homepage so that I would remember to click the donation button once a day.
I wear this shirt to remind me of the pledge I made when my Albino Ex dumped me: No more guys anywhere near my life unless they worship cats as much as I do. (You know how there is a certain kind of asshole that thinks it is cute to bag on cats?) I should probably enter further clauses about tea, Mendelssohn, and single malt whisky, but until I can contact my notary, at the very least you adore the smallest whisker on the scraggliest cat that ever lived, Buster, or I break your arm. Straightforward and simple.
Cats, by the way, get whatever part of the bed they want.