alec said:
I hate the talking cat.
I really think you blew it there.
It's true. They warned me about it, too. "You've put in so much random shit," they said, "but the talking cat that appears on what, four pages out of too freaking many, is the random shit that will make the contents of your metaphorical money bin crash into the underworld."
"It's nice to know you're unable to tell which of the shit I put in is random and which isn't," I replied. "The talking cat, however, is art: it defies explanation and transcends justification. I don't expect you to understand it."
"Art?" they said. "There's no more art here than in, say, a computer game, which is to say none at all. Where will this end? Maybe even Neil freaking Gaiman will roughly five years from now write a book with a talking cat in it and give it a line almost exactly like one of yours. Look. Many years in the future, someone - and this may be a vengeful spirit whom you have just corrected on the topic of Argentinian writers, maybe someone else completely, who can tell this far in advance - will bring this up and insinuate relevance to some ongoing general art discussion, perhaps even making reference to your then-current age in order to gain some kind of imaginary leverage. You don't want to be in that position! Repent! Ditch the cat!"
AHAHA FOOLS, I thought, although somewhat incidentally, as I always think that about everyone. But I guess we can see now who called the matter correctly. In any case, that me is now long in the past, so let us join together in laughing with impunity at him across the veils of time.