You always knew something was wrong. Maybe it was your proximity to the ground, maybe it was because you were never invited to the movies, or bowling, or the bar. Perhaps it was because you never held a meaningful conversation with anybody, or because when you looked in the mirror, you were just different from everybody else. A little hairier. A moustache of six long strands. Pointy ears. Just like your housemates, you had two eyes, a nose and a mouth. But they weren't the same, no matter how much you tried to convince yourself otherwise.

There were also more concrete issues at hand. While your housemates used the toilet, you became terrified of the water and felt compelled to relieve yourself in a box of sand. While your housemates sometimes ate food out of a bowl, they did so with utensils and, as much as you wanted, you just couldn't pick a fork up. It threw off your balance, you couldn't contain it in one hand, and just sticking your face into the bowl made a lot more sense.

You were also attracted to cats. In your housemates, you saw nothing special, and you were somehow always exempt from the bashfulness they exhibited in front of each other. You secretly wished that you could take advantage of this candor, but the desire was never there. Regardless of what body part was hanging off of whom, it was the same as a foot to you. But put a cat next to you, and your hormones said "purrrrrrfect."

Something really is nagging you. What is it?

It's because you're a cat or it's not because you're a cat.