I’m currently attempting to replace the amount of pictures on my profile with words, since they look quite ridiculous with the new format of Nexopia.

I shall write about myself, then. I live in the general vicinity of Edmonton, in no special place. The town that I somewhat live in, which my mother has nicknamed Pleasantville, is keeping its watch on their moral compass lately, ever since the aptly named Christopher Good noticed a (gasp) pornography section in the video store. His name is almost too perfect for literature, really: the “Christ” in Christopher shows that he holds moral authority, and of course no one can deny the coincidence that his last name is “Good,” and he is attempting to do “good” for the community. Anyways, these recent events of over-reaction have prompted me to nickname my town “The Basket of Innocence and Idealism.”

But enough about my silly town, and more about me…after all, that is what the people want. It is unnecessary to describe my physical features, since you have presumably viewed my ironically hilariously unfunny pictures at the top of the screen.
I have four friends in total. One of them is tall and has hair like a bird’s nest. He is accurate in his perception of style, but not very accurate when it comes to pushing the right switch on his date of birth. When he sings Doors songs he typically sounds like a clown who has taken too much LSD while mingling with frightened children. His biggest flaw-and I am quite serious here-is his limited taste in food.

And then we move on to another friend. This one is of the fairer sex. She is obsessed with nations shaped like boots, but is also familiar with the rigid class system present within this boot. I often think that she is more comfortable with her own equipment, which she is not afraid to explicitly state, joking or not. She is quite the accomplished Mickey Mouse Yahtzee player, although she can never overcome my skill; I pound her every time we play.

My next friend’s head makes up approximately 20% of his body mass. To me, watching him is like watching a Looney Tunes character, except he usually has pants on. I would advise any person to stay clear of this one; when he talks, he feels the need to flail his arms about incessantly. Those long arms of his come in handy when he is busy with his occupation: rolling barrels.

My last friend, and most certainly the least, is a fellow of medium height. He always tries to get me to bite him, which is weird. The only thing I could say about him, physically, is that he could frequently wear European-style hats and no one would look down upon him. I’m pretty sure that at some point in his life, he has worn a green shirt, although I could be wrong. He’s quite advanced in the field of socio-economics. In fact, he’s the only reason there is a field of socio-economics. This kind of gives him godly status…probably just under Dan Chartrand on the holiness scale. Right above the Fonz.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention my other good friend. He’s British and his name is Gary. What do you want me to say about him? He’s British, and therefore awesome.

And that’s basically my social life in a nutshell. You might be saying, “What a loser this guy is. He only has like, four friends.” You know what I say to that? I say, “At least they’re real, man. Now get out of my bathroom.”

I've gone mad, I'm afraid, but I know the cause. You see, outside of my window there is a small cottage surrounded by lovely rose bushes certainly worthy of awards, and in this cottage lives a laughing duck. Aesthetically, this duck isn't of the peculiar sort, no; its plumage is healthy, and its beak can withstand the greatest blow due to this duck's high calcium intake. As mentioned before, however, this duck, for any reason which one can name, is a laughing one. Perhaps in the world of ducks, somewhere deep within the hidden pond, this laughing is a custom among them, but if it is, the duck community has a cunning way of keeping it undercover. I would theorize that it is quite unusual for a duck to be revealing his abnormality, if you can call it that, to the civilized world, or better yet, to humanity, in the same way it is abnormal for living men to unleash their soul, rather than cover true emotions with a shell of aggression and anger. It was as if this duck had nothing to hide, like a newborn baby being separated from his mother's womb, or an observant poet in the modern world. This duck's house reflected his character as well; loose, uneven, with a few shingles missing, exposing its flaws for all to see, which only accentuates its beauty. I had known this duck for some time now; ever since I moved to the semi-rural areas of New England, he had been my neighbour, albeit a strange one. Every Sunday morning, with his feathers still ruffled from his much-valued sleep, I would see him in his bathrobe fetching the newspaper from his crooked sidewalk. He would sometimes laugh and wave, and sometimes he would not; unpredictable, like the wind, or a lover's intentions. Lately, he had been coming out less frequently, for a duck's lifespan is not long, and his busy life was coming to a close. I would see him now and again, at times when his glorious presence shocked me, as my mind was constantly fixated on the predictable. The last conversation I had with this duck reached philosophical levels I could, at that time, hardly understand, as he explained to me the importance of joy over sorrow, love over hate, and, of course, laughter over crying. Simple ideas, yes, but these were ideas that few men, and few ducks, by chance, could fathom in their heads, for the obstacle to true happiness is a hard one to overcome in today's busy world. When the duck told me this, I simply brushed it away like dust, and laughed at the duck as I towered over him. A look of sadness, the only one I have ever witnessed this duck wear, came upon his face. This was no normal expression of sadness; as I gazed upon the duck's eyes before he turned away, I could see an instantaneous loss of hope in all things he held as true. I cared not at the moment, for I was in a mood of utter disdain for my fellow man, or fellow duck, as it were; I was distracted by trivial, unimportant matters. And as the duck's door shut behind me, I could not hear it over the sounds of my own greed and selfishness, though, thinking back, it was the loudest sound I have ever heard in my life. And when I picked up the morning newspaper the next day, and read the headline, my heart sunk: "Elderly Duck in Rural Village Dies In Sleep." However, my heart sunk to new depths when I went to the duck's house to find a poem on the ground he had written the night before, which, in short, detailed his despair towards the suffering my ingratitude had caused. I now realize that had I accepted his words, and embraced them like a warm summer day, he might have lived through one more night, drank one more cup of coffee, sang one more grateful tune, or spread his love, like a shining, mystical light, to one more being in his presence. And now, many years later, I have lost my sanity, for at my effect, the world has somehow become dimmer, and love, happiness, and all things true, are outdated, sleeping in the silent slumber of the duck's mind, never to be awoken again.

I'm sorry. If you were mislead by the title, which promises images of dead cats, you must be gravely disappointed. If you read the first paragraph on my page, you will understand that I am replacing images with words. And, keeping with that promise, I will discuss dead cats for a short amount of time.

What can I say about dead cats? It's harder than one might think to differentiate between a dead cat and a living one: after all, both of them ignore anyone who attempts to get their attention. It is said that cats respond negatively to being petted by being silent. Another similarity: cats, dead or alive, must be perpetually unhappy, because I can never get a reponse out of them.

But enough about their similarities. I know what you really came here for: you want to talk about the suprise that one experiences when they unwrap their Egg McMuffin and find a dead cat inside of it. We can only begin to describe the emotional loss a person feels when finding a dead cat hanging out in his Egg McMuffin. Prior to unwrapping the Egg McMuffin, the person has great expectations about what it will taste like. This excites him quite significantly. Not even the most bizarre person, however, would expect to find a deceased cat lurking between the buns of a well-deserved treat. Therefore, the person would experience great shock at this discovery. Then, depending on the person, thoughts like, "This is perhaps the most disgusting moment of my life," will run through his mind. The person might briefly wonder if he can get his money back for the Egg McMuffin, until this feeling is dominated by the strong feeling of disappointment at the realization that "I cannot possibly eat this." We all know how good Egg McMuffins are, though, so this realization might be discarded as trivial, prompting the person to savagely devour the entire thing, cat included.