Stagnant moss collects no stones

Here I am: verdant moss clinging desperately to it's rock. Perhaps the rock will shake itself off and roll away, trampling the moss that rested so comfortably upon it. What will it do next? To what or whom shall it cling in order to grow? In the instability of today's world it becomes an ever growing notion that the rock upon which we sustain ourselves can instantaneously crumble beneath us. I had a great job not many months ago. Excited about my new position and enjoying the people I worked with, plans began to solidify in my mind for all the things the future held. Without any warning, the rock upon which I based my physical nourishment became as sand. Leaving this moss to the mercy of it's environment.
Perhaps, the moss should reconsider it's predetermined interactions with it's natural host and see itself in a different light. Why is it that the rolling stone gathers no moss? Upon consideration the stagnant moss gathers no stones, but rests upon it's one host...waiting.

My Inner Cat Lady

It may seem an odd thing to confess from an admitted cat non-enthusiast, but I have recently become aware of a growing tendency to embrace my inner cat lady. While the melancholy Hamlet queried, "To be, or not to be..." I find myself reflecting upon this spinster's dilemma: who or what will keep me company as my years increase. The cliche notion is for a woman in my station, a female bachelor, if- you- will, to begin the collecting of small furry creatures to fill a void left by the afore mentioned single status. (By the by when will someone introduce an equivalent female word to bachelor that doesn't connote desperation and shame? And don't try to swindle me with the suggestion of bachelorette. Seriously.) My philosophical quandary, while not of Hamlet's soulful proportions, is such that my mind battles between rejecting all notions of collecting any animals around me as surrogate children and family and embracing my self-proclaimed eccentricity and becoming the proud owner of a reptile room. But who will feed the little darlings their squirming victims? Knowing my incapacity to kill a spider crawling across my floor I woefully admit: not me. And so I must ask myself of my future, if I dare: to own or not to own. The only certainty my path holds is that I will never be an actual cat lady.