When I was growing up, my dad's best friend was a british guy who collected motorcycles and played chess and hated cats with a vocal passion. I had no idea it was possible to hate cats before I met that man. Apparently it wasn't just him. I love my cat, but didn't want to get one (I'm not very affectionate) and still can't understand how anyone could have a strong opinion on the matter if they don't own one.
I had a surgery on my hand a couple months ago, and they accidentally nicked the median nerve, and all my thoughts today keep getting pushed out by my forearm being apparently on fire. I'm surrounded by methheads, and too aware of how tweaker-like my compulsive forearm rubbing is.